Never mind the bluegrass.
Or the rolling hills jutting behind, beside and ahead
Through the quicking turns of I-71, I-75 and I-64.
Never mind that the starry sky seen above
By a blackened night is made so much darker
Through the few-and-far-between highway lamp posts.
Never mind the overnight crystalline snows of December
Or the late Spring and late Summer sunsets.
Never mind the company van stocked to its brim
With overweight co-workers and never mind being squished
In the backseat. Always; Who else could fit?
Never mind the Appalachian accent.
Or the funny tales this odd lot of people tell.
For here in the Backwater stereotypes are real.
Never mind. I’ve been to Kentucky a time or two.
And this Memorial Day weekend I’m feeling a bit blue.
The allergies I brought back from Kentucky are all too true.
So sing to me an old crooning Bluegrass song
Upon whose wings might chase these sniffles and sneezes away.