Potshot

 

 
 
Warren Oates and Harry Dean Stanton,
carpetbaggers of rube glamour.
    Kentucky in the 1920s
shook like a wet collie, flung
 
both to the West Coast, Hollywood.
My grandmother, Mamaw Head,
    was born the same decade,
in a holler called Viper near Hazard.
 
Closest she got to Hollywood was Louisville.
Warren Oates lived there as well,
    late 40s, early 50s, same time
as her. To think for a few years
 
they shared the same city…she’s
still alive, kept her vigor holding on
    to bitterness. Outlived W.O. by
four decades, and Harry Dean
 
by three years now. In the nursing home
she picks fights with the blue hairs,
    eats gossip the way 

cannibals scarf flesh. She hates
 
men…it’s not enough to simply
mistrust them. “Mamaw,” I can
   imagine asking, “Do you
like them even a little more
 
once they’re dead?” Her answer
more certain than laughter:
    “Boy, can you call it
sleep if there’s no rest?"