He lived a rock and roll lifestyle
with one foot in the grave,
a true American boy from the land
of Levi’s jeans and apple pie
until he became a wounded veteran
sitting at the bar yearning for the bombs to flash,
the guns to sound and the music of the mountains
to drown out the pounding in his ears.
The glass bottle would collect his tears,
trading its liquid love for his aching soul,
and the bar could erupt into a fight or explode,
taking every shrapnel of him with it,
but all he would see in his glassy red eyes
is the image of a wailing baby of whom
he never saw take her first breath
but knew would see his dying one.