Who’s to say that
puppy love
ain’t real
for just a flicker
of the lightning bug’s behind
on the thickest night in July
when sweet tea tear-drops off
the tip of a lemon wedge and 
lolls on the side of
an empty glass?

Even Jesus smiles from
the right hand of God when
she interrupts his sentence to go
get another jug o’ tea and
the screen door slams behind her,
leaving lover boy on
the porch to kick dust
with weathered Chucks,
wishing some blasted genius would invent
some sorta jug that could refill itself