Time in a Bottle

by R.H. DeVault

Hands clapping over our heads
feet sliding in socks over dimpled
linoleum, cream and gold.

Blue Listerine-colored numbers
glowing through the face
of a clock radio mounted under

the cabinet beneath the drinking
glasses. Sitting on the ninety
degree angle where counters

meet, hearing Jim Croce’s
Pennsylvania folk revival
tones slap the walls of the

kitchen. Singing about
the Southside of Chicago
like it was just outside

our Middle Tennessee farmhouse.
Heels tapping the cabinets
mimic the strike of pool

cues, and bad, bad Leroy Brown
was just about to walk in.
Milk, not beer. Suckers, not cigarettes.

But every tune we howled
Dixie Dawn, carwash blues,
roller derby queen

until we were breathless
from swinging and dancing,
our broom the microphone.