TO ANYONE WHO’LL LISTEN

Old Doc said, “Come on in,” his home a bus

on blocks above a filthy creek. His flour

and meal in Folgers cans, which kept them dry,

he bragged. His bed: a couch. Cracked panes. Wood stove.

To anyone who listened he sang Hank.

He held his pick like a coin he’d lost, then found.

“To die in a Cadillac,” he said, “would be

just fine,” then asked if I could buy him booze.

I know: I have betrayed him telling this.

Perhaps his story’s used to bolster mine.

Old Doc, you’re right: my heart has told on me.

I’ve turned our past into a myth that works.

You took me in your arms, breathed whiskey, wept,

said, “Don’t forget me.” But I had to. And can’t.