Parker Logan: Poetry: April 2021

Southern Legitimacy Statement: Though the son of a Wedding DJ and the product of a place on the outskirts of Orlando, Florida, I was raised on collard greens, snap peas from my Papa’s garden and fellowship fried chicken after Sunday service at Grandma’s house. If I ever was thirsty I was told to spit in my mouth and if someone was ever offering food I was told to never leave hungry. Currently residing in Tallahassee, you can find me swilling Bud Lights from time to time and fishing at the river.

Open Season

Hey! you tall drink of hot lovin’
when’s the next baby due?
Mind if I lend a hand?
Must be hard in the pews sweatin’
on Sunday’s over bible verses cherry picked
like a good pot roast recipe
at your in-law’s family reunion.
Thrice divorced and never married
makes a man crazy like spit.
Let me tell you straight: I ain’t
the kind of Baptist that sits
in back rows, drinks Bud Light,
and only shows out on Christmas
and Easter. I’m a front man
in the choir, red blooded
All American, and I smile
at old women in the grocery store.
Nah sir, I crack the whip
before dawn, tithe ten percent,
and eat fried chicken. Polite
as a parakeet, gentle as a blue tick
bloodhound, I’m more man
than beast with teeth like
dull butter knives in the China drawer.
I got arms the size of watermelons
fingers bigger than corks.
If you need work done ‘round
the house, call your friend,
Buddy Turner, and I’ll take
a switch to the enemy
and give that mother what for.