He had hair like the bright snow that glistened
under the fluorescent light,
and white feathery eyebrows and eyelashes
that encircled eyes of pink.
His translucent skin glowed like pale neon
that warmed up to a pink hum
every time he sat down that quart jar of moonshine.
And Lord, could he play that fiddle.
Working it up into some kind of sweet bluegrass fury.
Late into the night, when the Mason jar held only an inch of shine,
his skin burned red
and it made me wonder
if that fiddle might catch fire from his touch.
But it never did, it only stammered to a slow halt.
And then he left, walking zig zag into the night,
Fizzling out like some kind of
that’s done come and gone.