corns on the cob

we don't like
your kind around here
boy, the man
says at the gas station
somewhere on a dirt
road between nine
corn fields.
we don't cotton
to people like
you. all sissified
with your city
clothes. why you
wearing girl shoes?
huh? you say.
these aren't
girl shoes.
you stare at your lime
green running shoes
and shrug.
I'm just looking
for directions
to get out of this
place.
where am I?
this makes him
laugh and call
his brother out from
the back room
where you hear
a toilet flush.
he don't know where
he is cecil,
he says, barely
containing his joy.
this makes them
both laugh and toss
another hunk
of chewing tobacco
into their
mouths.
well, maybe you can
google
yourself out of
here, they say,
slapping each other
on their backs
with denim
shirts, the sleeves
shredded off.
finally, they wipe
the tears out of
their eyes and spit
a long stream of
brown goo towards
a bucket in
the corner.
you know where the water
tower is boy?
no, you say, looking
out the greasy
window.
I didn't see one
when driving up.
cause there ain't none
they both say
together howling, showing
the five teeth
between them.
okay, okay. i'll find
my way out,
thanks for nothing.
don't get smart with us
boy. you don't want to know
us when we get mean.
then a woman
comes out of the back
buttoning her
long prairie dress
and she says.
leave that man alone.
you boys always messing
with people.
take the road you
came in on and go straight
then make a right
when you start to see
some cows. that'll take
you to the interstate.
sorry about my boys,
they mean well, just
feisty sometimes.
here take some of these
corns on the cob
and you come back
real soon. hear.