Mama says you got to come home now. No more staying out late playing that guitar. She’s heard enough and you got chores to do. So put on your hat and grab your coat. We’re going home.
He stood, guitar case in hand, waiting for the bus to Tulsa. The streetlight buzzed as lazy moths and fat horseflies dashed themselves into the light overhead. He could tell by the smell of cornsilk that the crops were ready for harvest, but his feet itched to be on his way.
Mama says you got to come home now. Your supper is getting cold and the house is too big for her to be alone. There’s beer in the fridge and Cocoa-puffs in the cupboard. She left a light on so don’t be long.