It's a family beer hall

He's the
Paw Paw,
the Grandpa
this hap-hazard guardian
of a family beer hall,
this tree.

Many hands have
worn him smooth,
shiny.

Generations
have leaned on his
sideways trunk,
stroked him with
beer-bottle-cold fingers,
starched pearl-snapped shirts
clinging to
dance-sweaty backs
have leaned against
him for support
as farm boys
charmed round-eyed girls,
and clammy palms held
him to still their trembling.


He leans
towards the
horse shoe pits
tough, gray,
bent and scarred
as a
South Texas Farmer,
his few remaining
branches
combed over
towards the
music.

He remembers
Willie Nelson
with short hair,
and has seen
me dance in
the shadow of
a full moon
to a medley
that included
Izzy Pop
and
BB King.

This Tree,
guardian
of the
Shiner Bock
and
the
Budweiser.

Makes me
happy,
on a night
when
I'm tall and
proud
in my
brown cowboy boots,
standing
beside the cement pond
with a
Man who can
two step in
flip flops
and understands
"context".