fiddle dee dee

she says things like.
i don't cotton to that idea,
or i was on that unruly man
like a chicken on a boll weevil.
i ask her what's up
with this
strange way of speaking.
cotton?
when was the last time you were
even near a cotton field,
i ask her.
the war's over, i tell her.
the south lost. thank god.
oh hush. she says back.
sometimes you make my blood
boil,
it makes no never mind what you
think.
the south will rise
again. you'll see.
that war of northern aggression
will one
day be rectified.
oh brother, i say, taking a long
sip of a mint julep
that she just put in my hand.
sometimes i wonder if you truly
adore me like you say you do, she says,
blinking her eyes,
feigning tears as she stares
off across
the parking lot to a dunkin
donuts sign next
to a goodyear tire center.