Good whiskey, a old truck and pretty woman near.

The good days are not forgotten.

                            Good whiskey, a old truck and  a pretty woman near.

I was passing time. Waiting for no-one in a dark Monterey tavern in 1992.
Sipping the Black Velvet whiskey. Listening to Hank William Jr. sing.
"Why do we drink? Why do we get high? Because it is family tradition."


Pretty Kentucky girl lost in California asked for the free seat.
I told her. Please sit and tell me a story.

She smiled. Asked what was I drinking?
I told her some Black Velvet today. Trying to bring back something lost
and can't be found.

Her smile disappeared and she told me.
"Something shouldn't be found again. Few second chances turn to gold.
Hope bury in s**t can be rebirth."

I told her I like her.
Allow me to buy you a drink.

She smiled and requested a  double of Jack Daniels and she promised me a story.
I bought the drink and many more.

Her story was similar to many young girls who came to California.
Wanted everything. Had a baby and now had nothing.

I told her.
"All of us fall into a bucket of cow manure. We hope we get out.
Get clean-up and still have some pride in tact."

She smiled and  asked what did I drive.
I told her. "My old Dodge truck."

She requested a ride down highway one to Big Surf.
To sit on the beach and to watch the sea.

I drove down highway one south.
I had a closed bottle of whiskey.
My arm around a pretty Kentucky girl.
I didn't need the Black Velvet tonight.

Had some Johnnie Cash on the radio.
I was learning.
Many types of paradises.

Good whiskey, a old truck and a pretty woman near allow
hope and possibility to come alive.


.                        Coyote
                     June 2013

Author's Note

A new poem. I hope you enjoy.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i really like the feel you gave to this...

you had me there, hearing johnny cash, my arm around the girl...and feeling the salt of the beach in my face.

a night to remember, even if there were none with her after that.

you guys made your own story...i suppose she was right, you can never really go back...it's never quite the same, is it?

nice write, coyote.

[Coyote Poetry]

Can't go back in body. Old dreams become sweeter with time. Thank you for reading.