I promised myself I wouldn't drink
This morning, but
Ring of Fire was playing on the
Radio as I showered.

I guess we shared some demons, J.
Well, here's to us. To how
My father played your songs
For me when only my mother's

Skin and bones were between us.
Here's to you and me, John.
How I cried when June passed, but
Drank to your joining her. To

How you boom-chika-boomed to
The taste of the ice cold beer on her
Warm lips in New Orleans
As we stopped among the piles of

Katrina rubble just to take it all in
(Including each other);
That we were there. Together.
Here's to you, John. To how Rick

Rubin was a prophet sharing your light
One last time with the humble masses
Before it went out. As it should be. As it
**** well should be. To

How my father loved you his whole life
And never got to shake your hand
(But I brought him to meet Willie,
Which was almost as intense to the old man.)

No rest for the wicked, John. So I'll
Never pray that you rest in peace.
I pray that you rock on -June at your
Side- Going to Jackson, when it's

Springtime in Alaska. Remembering
Forks wedged in the walls of San Quentin
And gritty glasses of water served.
I'm putting on my black shirt after

This drink. Then guitar, boots that could
Kick out the foot lights at the Grand Ole,
And an attitude I've adopted with honor.
Here's to us, John.

Walking the
God-
******
Line.