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.