Years ago, as I stood in your kitchen
in green neon socks and first bra bravado
I did not care that you were born
in a cabin on top of Lookout Mountain.
Your smell of mothballs and Lady Stetson
lulled me to sleep,
and my droopy eyes were not surprised when
you drove to the store in second gear.
Years later I would learn of the
red hot talent that took you
from Alabama to New York for an exhibit
of your own. Perhaps the slow train ride
back is what makes you question my weight
or my complexion.
Now, looking at your painting of the cabin
on Lookout Mountain, my feet
wider and flatter from the weight of my own train rides, I wonder:
If I look close enough, can I see through
the window into your room?
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