Her pockets
weren't the only
things that had
been high
in Nashville,
living
mood to mood
with a pimp
son of a ton
of great songs
and that one
from the radio.
His chip bigger
than his shoulders
maybe a little
greater
than his talent.
No,
she'd been
junkie angels
high,
and front yard
crying low.
She'd mostly
come back,
crashing hard,
but walking
away from the
landing-
they say
that makes
it a good one.
He was not in
better shape, and
truth told a
little crazy,
still,
for dope and booze
and the records
of her former
Harlem River
Daddy, her other
favorites too.
She'd made it back,
had to get back,
down to Arkansas
back to the farm.
He dropped in there,
traveling from
the last place to
anyplace next,
a big shot
without a single
dollar bill.
They took a ride
down back roads,
the trash in the
floorboards
ankle deep.
She drank her
last beer.
He smoked
a cashed bowl.
They bragged
about scars,
laughed like
they'd never seen
death eating crackers-
the shake
and bake kids-
and famine
eating the rest
of them,
its teeth deep
and drawing back
blood
before pushing in.
Then they talked
small voiced
about ones who
didn't come
down,
buried in boxes,
in worm
riddled ground.
When their time
was done they
never noticed,
counting out change
at the Legion,
ordered two more
cheap beers.
They huddled
and chuckled and
shed half a tear,
but everybody
knew they were
too much alike
to be real.
So instead
she hugged his
neck and said
again soon,
but he was
already writing
a sad story
in his head.
And she was
just like her
Grandpa,
and he was just
like everybody
else.
