To Prine, by Kelty Barrett
My dad always spoke to our mailmen
Regardless of where we moved,
Or the time of their route.
He would linger in the front yard, hose in hand
Lawnmower idle
Texas gumbo clay in the grooves of his palms
To ask about their day, their families, their dogs...
He had an old friend, a storyteller
A mailman
Whom he first heard
In a small Chicago bar…
(Or perhaps, it was New York)
Sing about Spanish pipedreams
And Montgomery angels
many years before.
Of all I inherited,
The most cherished is my friendship
with that old storyteller too
Who I grew up listening sing
about peaches and Paradise Kentucky
I think it was the whiskey
(the infamous culprit behind my dad ever
playing guitar)
And it was definitely the whiskey
(I never inherited a talent for song)
That emboldened us to share a story from our friend once,
about Donald and Lydia
Which made my mother cry.
You see, my dad and I don’t always get along that way...
But that’s what John did.
He built bridges with his words.
Artwork by Ian Grubbs
Instagram: @big.sun.bar