He has a country accent
So thick you can cut it with a knife
A cigarette in one hand
A comb in the other
I always thought it would be the nicotine
That got him in the end
Or a car wreck on those windy country roads
He always drove like a maniac
He climbed higher trees than anyone I knew
When we were kids
And was the first one of us to get a pocket knife
Something he always made sure
We didn’t forget
He was the other older brother
I grew up thinking I had two of them
Cousin was just a word
I followed them off the barn roof
And we all lived thru it
I lit up that first stolen cigarette
Right along with them
Although I later had the sense to quit
I was still right behind them
Right or wrong
It’s going to be a smaller world
Without him in it
I’ll probably never go fishing again
It seems a small thing to give up
In memory of a man
Who was such a big part of my life