All the back road

by Alan Catlin

grit from every
twisted turnpike,
every broken double
yellow lined highway
not on any map
sold in this country
or anywhere else, was
embedded about his
person, “Son, make it a
longneck, doesn’t matter
what kind and a double
Yukon neat. What you
lookin’ at?” He said,
observing me reading
the faded lettering on his
way old, oil stained
shirt that said,
RIDE IT LIKE YOU
STOLE IT
He smiled, pounding
down his brand of liquid
fire, washing it away
with Imported from
Jersey longneck swill
signaling dos mas,
as he swalloed the last
of his beer, said,
“Anyone can wear a
RIDE AMERICAN
shirt. This one you
have to earn.”