Monday Poetry Jam - Fatherhood or honkey tonk

An interesting combination of themes, and, of course, I immediately felt I had to try and do both together.   Fathers are just such good subject matter for honkey tonk blues -- "A Boy Named Sue," etc.   It's been a busy week so my offering is pretty much thrown together from notes on scraps of paper.   And unfortunately there is no music to go with it.   I think the first part has the feel of sad honkey tonk but the last part is more like: "For he's a jolly good fellow which nobody can deny..."   

Also, I need to make a disclaimer.  This is not about my own Dad. 

 My Dad, the Hermit of Dismal Key

Well, sort of not.  Just like it is not about me...sort of not.  Both my Dad and myself were indeed raging alcoholics.  We were both assholes when we were drinking.  And we both eventually went to A.A.   He died sober several years ago and I hope to follow that example -- although preferably not in the too near future.

So the theme of the poem is accurate for both of us.  But to the best of my knowledge nobody named anything after either of us, neither of us had a truck, and we never knew anyone named Big Jim McGrew.  On the other hand,  I did keep a pail by my bed so some of the details fit.  It's all poetic license anyhow.   So, after way too much babble, here is the poem:

Lucky's

(Chorus)

At the back end of town new the old train tracks

there's a place they call Lucky's where nobody looks back.

It was named for my father who went there every day,

in search of some kind of salvation, they say.

Whenever they called that he'd run out of luck,

I'd go bring him home in the back of my truck,

and roll him on the cot with a pail by his head

and spit when he moaned that he wished he was dead.

Now Big Jim McGraw would have granted that wish

'cause Dad dipped his spoon in that married man's dish

just one time too often.  So I knew Dad was dead

when Jim came to the door with a bruiser named Fred.

(Chorus)

At the back end of town new the old train tracks

there's a place they call Lucky's where nobody looks back.
It was named for my father who went there every day,
in search of some kind of salvation, they say.

But instead they announced that they'd given up booze

and they wanted to share with my Dad the good news,

that a day at a time, his life could be freed

and, amazing to all, my old man agreed.

They lived the 12 Steps and then other's came too

and the town came to know then as men who were true.

Then they bought the old bar whose business was fleeting

and turned it into a clubhouse for meetings

Now twenty years later the old man passed away

and the whole town showed up with respects to pay

and every night down by the old railroad line

the A.A. is great and the coffee is fine.

(Chorus)

At the back end of town new the old train tracks
there's a place they call Lucky's where nobody looks back.
It was named for my father who went there every day,
to share his salvation with others, they say.

I just stopped by this morning

I just stopped by this morning,
wheels crunching slowly on gravel,
to see again through a lifting fog,
this dear old meadow
where we took down the fences
and piled the wood.

Once, I thought, we'd never leave.
Use the old boards for a cabin
on the far side of the field
near the two trees,
gnarled oak, straight pine,
away from highway noise,
watch the sky, tell our tales,
and hold each other forever.

Now I lean against the car for a moment,
straining to catch your voices, your songs,
among the wild flowers we used to pick,
hearing mostly the distant hum of tires
on the Interstate behind me up the rise.

I'll be late today. I don't care.
When I first began to drive it again,
smiling, waving, promising,
I swore that I would not fail, on this commute,
to stop and see you, or at least drop a postcard
in our secret spot, and check for one of yours.

I watch a single butterfly, first of spring,
and sadly note that
sometimes now
I'm fifteen disconcerted miles beyond the exit
before I even remember this place.

The smile I wear this morning is sad.
The early mist is thick. I cannot see you all
though I know you are out there
still romping in high grass.

It's very strange. The metal of my car
feels hard and sleek and real
against the knuckles of clenched hands.

So different from soft welcome of
the warm humid air of this familiar place.
And yet I feel like a ghost.

I just stopped by this morning to say
I miss you.

Mr. Linky

Ode to Mr. Linky

There once was a Mister named Linky
who connected things quick as a winky.
He helped websites to touch
and he didn't care much
if the touching was sometimes quite kinky.