My brother-in-law always drove the show
car, knew how to navigate every pig
track and back road without a map, could drive
safe in cities, too. Drop us at the load
out on time without a hitch. Cheerful he
was, and good hearted, a big grin to match
his wit. But Lord, he had enough of South
Knoxville still in him to park that show car
at a tilt under Mam’s old shed and prop
the door open, let his hunting dogs flop
in the back like a doghouse. So if you
were to come up on it, see that Cadillac
full of old yallow dogs, you’d think we were
right trashy. He kept the car shined up for us
and always tried to clean the seats
but we were forever brushing dog hair
from each other’s hind ends before a gig,
blonde swirls and hanks we picked like strings,
had to strum off quick
as a drop thumb on the banjo.