Reject the lace petticoats, the rickrack
hems. Reject the gingham bonnet’s
stranglehold, the myth of calico
for modesty’s sake. Forsake
the man whispering backstage
your fate, his eyes green
as dollar bills. Kick off
your lace-up boots and ankle
skirts and wail the blue notes
that howl your heart’s longing. Hop
high and belt out the one about
my Lulu Gal wearing that red dress
from the railroad man and those shoes
from a driver in the mines. Stay
in the pit with the rough and the rowdy.
Hop high! Don’t look behind.