4 t a I l I wouldn’t have a bushy tail, not a fox’s tail, not the kind to brush before a party. When I picture my tail it’s hairless, waxed with jalapeño paste, chamois buffed, and if I didn’t keep it in my pocket, it would slice the air with all its swinging. No wallflower tail for me. Instead, my tail would tap a Whisky River two-step inside my pocket, insisting that I let it loose, let it go; but if I did, I’d find it threaded through empty belt loops or shimmying the mike stand. ...