a poem in my pocket

At seventy years young,
Billie Jean says that she
belongs on “Broadway”, as
main street entertainment
of  sultry summer nights at
the lakes of Okoboji; yes, with
her velvety voice and tan arms
bejeweled in myriad silver bands
reaching to elbowed sleeves of an
elegantly wild leopard print blouse.

So BJ plays her own CD recording
to prove it, as she pours lovely dry
reds for the slightly tipsy wine-tasting
customers, served with Cajun curds,
and crackers spread with salty beer
cheese between stemmed glasses
across the vintage wood counter at
Little White Swan Lake winery in
an old barn tucked behind a hillbilly
ridge of rolling midwest corn country.

After serving the popular house
specialties, Bison Blush and Rose,
Billie brings out the good stuff:
“This is our finest petit sirah!”
she declares, pouring a generous
sample for herself – “My first today.”
Then swirling it loosely to release
the full fragrance and bringing it
up to her eager lips, eyes closed,
she smacks and sighs, “Divine!”

Ms. Jean’s a born and bred “Aussie,
but I don’t have an accent,” insists
the red-headed, red-blooded, proudly
American immigrant, “I speak proper
English!” Of course, the Yankees all
agree before buying a bottle or two
to take with them. “Come back Friday
night to hear me sing live on stage,”
Billie invites as she lovingly wraps a
rich burgundy within crinkly paper bag.