He had a limestone beard and Green River eyes.
Winter skin stretched across his fist
as he held a hickory stick
from his boots up to his shoulders—
cracking leather climbing boulders,
wooded hills and dead farmland.
Lived in his father’s house on the family farm,
rusty tractor in the yard, seven decades in the barn.
Some said he lost his mind.
Some said he mooned his shine.
But he never had one drop,
‘cause that’s what Mama taught.
He was a Bible man
in two lane highway land.
Had no next of kin.
He was the last of them.
I played once each week. He had a pew reserved.
I never heard him speak. I never had the nerve,
but sometimes we’d catch eyes.
(Most times he’d catch mine.)
When we laid him in the ground,
just a few folks gathered around.
He was a Bible man
in two lane highway land.
Had no next of kin.
He was the last of them.
And now I wish I’d known
how he loved to hear me sing.
In his will they found my name.
Now his land belongs to me.
Copyright 2001. All rights reserved.