The Lost and Last Hayride North
-- for Hank Williams (1923-1953)

I'm driving Hank Williams to his next gig
up north, lost on Highway 61, and he's
drunk in the back seat telling me how
damn queer it feels to be a daddy, lots of
money coming in. My own? He left us,
Mister Williams, ran clear to Cincinnati.

Pontiac running blind in a snowstorm,
he's broken out his guitar, mumbling
lyrics about a log train coming home soon,
his pa limping up to their porch, gone
off again to a cypress cutters' camp.
That's one jim dandy picture of your boy,

I mention to him, watching my mirror.
A spike in the spine, he grins the pain's
dead and, yes, you already said he's
a junior, I reply. No children of my
own right now I guess is sad but how
much further tonight in my new hearse?

Reprinted from Fathers: A Collection of Poems. Edited by David and Judy Ray. St. Martin's Press, 1997