---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ ISBN# issue/book “Too Many Humans & Not Enuf Souls” cc&d, v307 (the March 2021 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book What Lies on the Other Side the cc&d Jan.-April 2021 magazine issues collection book		get the 424 page Jan.-April 2021 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Those Goddamn Boots

David J. Thompson

Fifty year ago on Christmas break from college
my father worked at the only gas station
in his hometown of Oak Hill, West Virginia.
Early one cold morning a blue Cadillac pulled in,
and the driver told him it fill it up.
As he was pumping the gas, my dad watched
the driver try to wake up this guy sleeping
in the back seat. When a lot of shaking didn’t work
at all, he yelled at my dad that something was wrong,
to call a doctor right away. This is Hank Williams,
he screamed. Fucking hurry! Hank Williams!

Later, after an ambulance took Hank to the morgue,
my dad was left standing there with the Cadillac.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching,
then picked up a pair of cowboy boots off the floor
of the back seat, and while softly whistling
The Lost Highway, he took them out back
and hid them behind a stack of used tires.

My ex-wife always said, You got to sell
those goddamn boots. They’re not doing us
any good sitting in the hall closet. Take them
to New York or Nashville. Some asshole will pay
a fortune for those things. We could get a bigger place,
I could quit my job and we could have some kids.
But I always just shook my head, went back
to watching whatever ballgame was on tv.

So, now she’s been gone for years,
and I’m almost used to the loneliness,
but, still, most nights I put on Hank’s Greatest Hits,
drink some Jim Beam with beer chasers
and squeeze my feet into those boots.
I walk around a bit, then admire them
in the mirror until my feet start to hurt
like hell and I need another drink real bad.
Then I’m satisfied to belt back another shot
or two of cheap bourbon washed down
with a can of Miller Lite, and when
I finally finish wrestling those boots off
my aching feet, I wonder how much longer
I want to wait before I can hear Hank live
singing a sad three-chord, barefoot song
in the crowded, smoky honky-tonk they call heaven.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...