You can gauge the severity of their winters just by looking at the paint, how the springs sag will tell you something about the roads, they’ve travelled. But our men and our women tell their own stories, that you can’t read in their skin, or the way they hold their cigarettes. Their eyes are like old jackets that hang on the backs of closet doors, they drape their eyes on cast-iron hooks, their weather-stained alphabets are known only to a few, and nobody speaks them anymore. They say that red is the color of a man’s intentions I was told many times I was out looking for blood He who saw me, behind the wheel of that rooster-comb Dodge stayed the hell off the road I can still hear their hymns they sung. Summertime too will beat the shit out of your topcoat the color rubs right off on your fingers, a fine rouge, a pale dust to put some color in your cheeks. They would sing to save my soul when I drove by.