Big M. & the Squirtin', Burnin' Onion Rings

There at the on-ramp to 80, that's whereit started. Mincher's tract, catawampusto ours, sat littered with cars, dead John Deere,

           a prop-less plane from Vietnam, a bus           gutted of its seats. If you drove by slow

and looked between the junk or in the slough,you'd see his kids down on hands and knees,every goddamn one, out there pulling weeds

           with their teeth. Then came the real tragedy,           his teenage daughter drowned while in the bath,

and who'd blame us for thinking it was he,not the water, did the drowning. When bothsets of us cousins got together, we'd play

           spades or spoons until playing made us feel           too young, or pointless, or old, then we'd fill

our infinite time dreaming of the daywe'd make it big in LA or Nashville.Like any band with a hint of promise,

           we fought about our name, and we were still           fighting, years later, when the compromise

came right before supper. The onion ringthing, that didn't matter, the oil was what sparkedthe idea—all that thrashing and spitting

           when water splashed in the pan. Mama clerked           for the county back then and testified

against the man, but still she watched us singour little hearts out: Oh Sally you diedalone, alone, sweet Sally, so alone.

           We used a hairbrush for our microphone.           They tried to make him clear out all the shit,

on account of public nuisance. He slippedthat charge too. Good god, we belted it.