On the Current Weather Situation & Grits

This is where I’m supposed to speak on the sacredness of rain and all its life bearing qualities; this is where I’m supposed to speak on scientific terms about photosynthesis; this is where I’m supposed to praise Mother Nature and be one with earth, sky, moon, and sun; this is where I rapture the natural cycles of life, and give thanks to the seasons, but my roof is leaking and the mosquitoes are biting my legs.


O muse of the Waffle House, sing to me a melody of trucker hats and saw mill gravy. Sing to me a melody of interstate highways segregated by tall southern pines. Let the bass rhythm bellow from blown tires. Allow the damp air to settle over my body like sweat. Muse, I miss your southern drawl, your sweet tea. Give me a hitchhiker’s chance to hear you again.