Sunday, feasting on the powers of Georgia barbecue,
reveling in the glory of a lakeside fish fry,
small talk, a little bit of Hegel,
buckets of sweet tea and a tree of lemons.
Bit of a fight over the better voice,
Haggard or Yoakum, nobody won.
I'm a fan of both, and they do sound better
on a Sunday afternoon with a plate
of striped bass and sliced pork shoulder.
Haggard's kind of bass and onion hush puppies,
and Yoakum, he's like a hot sauce
spiced with Thai chili peppers,
which could get me exiled
if anybody found out, but I'm mum.
My mother finally tells the story about
my grandfather during the Great Depression.
Arrested jumping trains
coming into TUcker, when it slowed down
he tossed sacks of corn and flour
in the woods outside
Cofer Brothers lumber yard.
New to me, and I loved it,
the air of a just crime, my Papaw a renegade.
I remember his kindness and his jokes,
the tipped Fedora and Lucky Strike cigarettes,
something of a rascal, a colorful guy,
he taught me how to drink coffee.
I still think about him when I pour in the milk.
Odd, no matter how cool, or how wayward
I've ever been I've never been so brave,
or so desperate as to jump a train
and steal food for my family.
And the barbecue tastes even better now,
I have something more to relish,
something more about my forefathers
to season this hungry history with.
