It's brutal how I've missed your shout and twist,
your Sallies Mustang, Sallies tall and long.
Your Checker chubby, your Locomotion,
your Potato mashed and Pony broken.
Dear country, how I have longed to get down
and dirty. I'm no Fred, you're no Ginger.
Your boots weren't made for waltzing gingerly,
and we don't garnish rotgut with a twist.
How I've missed our country ways. Let's go down
to Harvey's Moon, where I've been gone so long
some jerk bumped my score from the now-broken
pinball game. I've always loved the motion
perpetual, the whiplash emotion
of finger on flipper, the fizz ginger
makes with gin, bottle spun till it's broken.
One kiss, my dear country, and please don't twist
away. Inside the bunker all along
it was you I dreamed of—hunkering down
as shit pooled at our feet, as shells rained down,
my trigger finger the only motion—
it was you. While the other grunts had long
debates over Mary Ann or Ginger
I reached for the dip of your back, the twist
of your hip, and a beat never broken.
Don't wait until hallowed ground needs breaking
to call me up. I've laid my shovel down
anyway, giving the dirt one last twist.
I came home for an earthier motion
and my dear, I don't mean farming ginger.
Every life is a thousand dances long
and the horizontal ones all belong
to you. Before the record sounds broken:
Move with me. A house of bread and ginger
awaits us but before we settle down,
before it's all going through the motions,
put on a skirt, put your hair in a twist,
wear a parachute. It's a long way down—
The Yo-Yo, broken. The Jerk in motion.
We Ginger and Chicken, we turn and twist.
~by Sandra Beasley