Papaw Picks on Saturday Nights

By nine, trucks old and new

line the street, spilling into the yard.

Jim Beam and George Dickel

lubricate the chord progression.  

Drinks go down, volume goes up.

I’ll be reading in the backroom

as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.

When the last burning drop of homage

trickles down his chin,

he gyrates across the floor,

flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.

Some other picker takes his spot

by the fireplace and bellows

about a cheatin’ heart. 

One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn

from under the pale, bearded face

of a picker who stumbles into my room,

collapsing across the bed.

His dreams of Ryman Auditorium

go without interruption.

I slip to the floor,

settling down on the raft.

A slow, steady current carries

us downstream to another shaded

swimming hole.

Reviews

[Mark]

So, father and son choose different routes to quell their unrealized dreams, eh? Father yearns for bluegrass fame, son yearns merely for Father; one goes for the likker, t'other goes for the letters. An old story, beautifully expressed.