I was still a kid.
It was late November on Route 413,
Pineville, Pennsylvania.
The ghosts were restless
on the porch of the general store,
the only store in town.
In the distance,
the sound of a hammer
ringing off cold steel,
pounding lonesome at dusk.
My Dad says, "son,
that's real poetry
right there."

Years after,
on the day we buried my Dad,
me and Bernie
raised a couple cold Rolling Rocks
at The Pineville Tavern,
the only bar in town.
We clicked those long necks
and talked about Dad.
He was with us for a moment.
There was motion, I swear
in that smoky tavern air.

Some guy down the bar
started mad-doggin' me.

Real poetry,
right there.