Realized that I never put this poem up away from the poetry club livejournal which is not read by all, and that I was rather satisfied with it.

I'm familiar with Southern Death
young and old
with the smell of tobacco,
cheap beer,
gunpowder and hunting on its fingertips.

I saw it finally sink in
to good ol' One-Eyed Terry,
the carpenter (and former Two-Eyed Terry
the motorcyclist) who was
maybe once a young romantic,
dizzily blowing smoke and moonshine fumes.
It looked cool, I guess.

He coughed up his lung in the sink
and now I mow his widow's lawn.

And there's old Buckee Brown;
that man confused
the beer in his left hand
and the cigarette in his right.
But it didn't really matter
in his cancerous Marlboro end.

It was the only time
I ever saw my dad wear a suit.