Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

L.A. And Apple Pie

The South makes you slow,
like sausage gravy on a biscuit
too lazy to drip off the bread
and find the plate.
Slow,
like grits and bacon fat
turning solid in a metal can.
Your mind stops and simple tasks
like bringing in the groceries
become too difficult to manage.
It’s all that heat
day after day
baking your brain like apple pie.
It leaves you muddy and foggy.
Words come out slower
and sentences, once formed,
come out in drawls
slurred together as if the tongue
were dipped in molasses
and can’t find it’s way to the roof of the mouth.
I understand it,
but I don’t like it.
I miss the fast lane,
driving down the 10 to the 405,
rollerbladers shooting past me
on the Venice boardwalk,
girls in bikinis
that are actually skinny enough to be wearing them,
cell phones being used to cut the next big deal,
not order take-out from Hooters,
restaurants with a snooty attitude that’s deserved,
and cars that know how to turn left on a green light.