"Crappy Dry Teeshirts"

My dad died and all I got was this Crappy green t-shirt. Not really, but, well... Let's pretend with white letters Proclaiming some place that commissioned it, Though never really contained it or made it Or held it or felt it or meant it Or had anything to do with it outside of a price Negotiated in tune to the term "bulk"; And all these "How ya doin?" smiles Miles and miles of them, stretched out, Always with a slight downcast But upbeat glint in the eye As if they were bragging. And the while they promise, hand on the shoulder, That all I have to do, Is just let them know, If there is anything they can... You know? "Anytime." In and out, we came, across the doubt, the clay. Across the always humid Alabama dust. Hot and June-filled. Near and over Fields of misspent and drying. I shout but I kept it inside. It rhymes, but not that well. It passes, like the night, And who the hell cares about goodbyes? My dad died and all I got was this chance To say "Hello" to strangers. I sigh, louder and louder all the time. I open my hands. Stand in the lack of rain. Blue skies for miles and miles. Stretched out, It's been blue skies for awhile.

Second Version

My dad died and all I got was this Crappy green t-shirt with white letters Proclaiming some place that commissioned it, Though never really contained it or made it Or held it or felt it or meant it Or had anything to do with it outside of a price Negotiated in tune to the term "bulk"; And all these "How ya doin?" smiles Miles and miles of them, stretched out, Always with a slight downcast But upbeat glint in the eye As if they were bragging "Thank GOD it wasn't me!" And all the while they promise, hand on the shoulder, That all I have to do, Is just let them know, If there is anything they can... You know? Anytime. Tears, and white bread, and gin, Store bought, pre-made food: Greens and chicken. In and out, we came, across the doubt, the clay. Across the always humid Alabama dust. Some crossed rivers or swamps, some crossed daylight And sounds. Others, like myself, Quietly flew down the Interstate, The I-65 pilgrimage: Hot and June-filled. Near and over fields of Wheat and cotton and other crops, most unknown but brown In the drought. Peaches, some, but Kudzu more. Lots of small things like beans left alone. Fields of misspent money and dying. I shout but I have to keep it inside. It rhymes, but not that well. It passes, like the night, And who the hell cares about goodbyes? My dad died and all I got was this chance To say "Hello" to strangers I had forgotten about despite a certain DNA coincidence. I feel about inside my soul, Like a kid with a cookie jar too big for them, Or someone wearing jeans that are not their own. I sigh, louder and louder all the time. I open my hands. Stand in the lack of rain. Blue skies for miles and miles. Stretched out, It's been blue skies for awhile.

Original Version

My dad died and all I got was this Crappy green with white letters teeshirt And all these "How ya doin?" smiles Miles and smiles-- Tears and beers, gin and young, Fruit juice and chicken-- In and out, across the doubt, Across the dry Alabama dust. Quietly flying down interstates Hot and June-filled. Near and over fields of Wheat and cotton, Peaches and cream, Kudzu, milk and red honey, Fields of misspent money, And dying. I shout but I keep it inside. It rhymes, but not that well. It passes, like the night, And who the hell cares about goodbyes? My dad died and all I got was this chance To say "Hello" to strangers I had forgotten about. I feel about inside my soul. I sigh, louder and louder all the time. Open my hands. Stand in the lack of rain. Blue skies for miles and smiles. It's been blue skies for awhile.