When you’re writing the epitaph
make sure to tell about the broke down trucks,
the cabin on the creek with the blown off roof,
the cobblestone curb on the lower Eastside
where we found two junkies crying,
remembering how they once had been
we bought them both a slice.
The dogs and the pups you loved,
the way the kids smelled in their sleep
and my hand all wrapped in a sock
after I caught it in the saw
building that house on the Cane.
Morning sun on the rimrock,
the laughter of the canning room,
walking in the deep woods
and the way we broke our hearts.
You should mention how I let you down
but we stayed together,
how the weight bent us double
yet we didn’t break.
Maybe the crazed look in Bob’s eyes
or the viking with his drywall trowel;
the little cabin in the islands,
and the woman who taught me kindness.
Tell it like it wasn’t -
cowboying in Argentina,
rescuing ships at sea
and how we laugh
when the truth doesn’t matter.
Forget what you don’t like
but be sure to mention the redhead
with her Irish potatoes,
old Henry who worked us to shame
and how we gave them hell.
Tell it brother. Tell it all.
