Blackberry Noir

They kicked Don’s ass out after he cheated at cards,

tried diddling his invalid cousin,

farted up the trailer.

He stumbled down Widow Creek Road

in the dark,

no street lights,

no flashlight,

no moonlight,

no phone,

sauced on peach schnapps.

He made it 587 yards before tripping on a pothole,

rolling down the embankment.

Why did Don’s family wait two hours before calling it in?

Why didn’t they go looking for Don themselves?

Why did authorities wait until first light to search?

Was a conspiracy in play here, for Don’s assets?

They collect insurance if he dies by misadventure?

All he owned were guns, knives and country records.

Were flintlocks worth anything?

Were Ferlin Husky albums worth anything?

Don grubbed on blackberries,

(a few still clinging in October)

didn’t cry out,

played a little pocket pool,

shit himself good with that soggy Hamburger Helper served for dinner.

What did dead drunk Don

think about while imprisoned by blackberries,

his faced raked bloody

until he fell asleep forever?

What else?

It was that time he fucked a coked-up Tanya Tucker

in his van after running sound for her at gig in Fresno.

A man could die happy thinking about that.