“Pushing Triple Digits“
Part I
Hot dogs and Schlitz
A shot of whiskey to wash it down
A stool at the counter, the words, the cook
The customer, the couple in the corner. Listening
Reading heartthrob magazines, looking for the scenes
The traffic in the street, the beat, and the heat
Soaking through his shirt on the fourth of July
Fogging up his glasses on the way to Sidney Lanier High School
Tee-tot, tee-tot, show me the chord, bingo bango
Strumming on his Gibson, one show after the other
Always moving, can’t be weighted down
In that baby blue caddy, suitcase in hand
Gloves, guitar, cigars and shoeshine
What else do you need in the middle of the night?
Except a driver and a prayer
A Nudie suit, a handmade tie and a little more time
Part II
The cemetery was deserted, ‘cept me and a man walking his dog.
I was looking for somebody’s grandfather.
Neither one of us was sure where he went to.
Maybe he was with the Catholics, even though he was Episcopalian.
Then, we paused.
It was hot out, pushing triple digits.
“It’s peaceful here, I come here twice a day. Different dog each trip.”
He smiled. “Where are you from?”
I answered. “Thanks for coming to visit us.”
Of course.
We both wore Ray-Bans.
Then, we paused.
It was hot out, pushing triple digits.
Humid, too.
Reminded me of Natchez or New Orleans.
“Usually people come up to me, I don’t even have to wait,
I just point and say Hank’s over there.”
“He’s not that hard to miss,” I said, joking but serious.
There were signs and arrows everywhere.
His monument towered over his neighbors.
“Right?” The man chuckled.
His dog looked up at him and wagged his tail.
Then, we talked some more – about
the Confederate soldiers buried there and
the governors and
the businessmen and
city fathers trying to leave something behind.
No one remembers them.
Everyone wants to visit Hank.
Funny how that worked out.
Doug Hoekstra 