her man in black

all day she listens
to johnny cash,
his endless playlist of songs,
she turns up her phone,
I love him,
she says.
the way he sings, wears
black.
a man's man.
I love his deep voice,
the way
he stands tall
in the saddle. I really
like that.
it's not singing, I say,
begging to disagree.
it's more like
talking.
I could talk like that
if I smoked enough
cigarettes and drank
enough scotch.
you're no johnny cash
she says
and you'll never be,
so don't even go there.
watch me play this washboard
I tell her,
dragging a scrub
brush across it then
lowering my voice
to a low low point of
sexiness.