Shaver/Walker

Kevin Grauke

Billy Joe and Jerry Jeff died last year
and with them so did some of me, goddamn it,
because Daddy planted sod in our bicentennial yard
with nothing on but ragged cut-offs and a cowboy hat,
and when he’d come in from the sun to cool to their records
with a sweating longneck mashed to his cheek like a poultice,
it was joy that moved his grass-stained feet to the rhythm of Texas.


He’s still here, Daddy is, still stomping his tough old soles,
but his world’s dying quick, and mine’s fast on its heels,
which is probably why I sleep too little and drink too much.


The world once spun through space
at a much slower pace, in no hurry whatsoever.
After all, what better place was there to be?
Every night was a good night for singing,
but now there ain’t no God in Mexico
or anywhere else. Billy Joe and Jerry Jeff
are gone. The grass in the yard is dying
and the dancing might be on its last tune.
The bottle is nearly empty, ready to break.
At night, sometimes I hear the world whisper,
Why have you spun me so fast? There’s nothing ahead but fire.