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.


© 2011 C.T. Bailey