He was a fan of Jackson Browne,
the only one I ever met.
He’d play tapes with the windows down,
and wax how people didn’t get
the understated genius of
the lyrics to Doctor My Eyes,
The Load Out, or Lawyers in Love.
He’d say, “like, do you realize
he wrote These Days at just sixteen?”
He’d emphasize sixteen as though
it were a miracle, “I mean
just think.” I’d mess with him, “Wait, no,
you mean the Allman Brothers Band.”
He’d steam, and scold me, “first of all,
it was Greg Allman, solo, and…,”
and he’d go on for quite a while
before it’d hit him I was joking,
then flash that disappointed look
my dad made when he caught me smoking
again. But the last time, he took
a different route, something was wrong –
windows up, no tape, when I tried
to get him going on some song,
he shrugged and shifted to one side
like nothing mattered any more.
He dropped me off and said he had
to go get something at the store.
And that was it. The rest is sad.