A Can Of Lone Star Beer



When Branden left the local bar
That stormy Friday night,
He would never make it to his ranch,
Nor see the morning light.

He drove on out to Cherry Creek,
As the sky was pouring down.
His truck got bogged down in the mud,
Miles from the nearest town.

He tried to cross the flooded road,
The cold rain made him shiver.
The storm had turned the quiet creek
Into a raging river.

Rising up on either side,
Rock canyons formed a wall.
Icy water covered him,
In a deadly, frozen pall.

What happened next,
God only knows,
He was found, the neighbors say,
Floating in the swollen creek,
His body washed away.

Today, I passed by Branden's shrine,
And smiled as I drew near.
For beneath the graying, wooden cross,
Sat a can of Lone Star beer.

© 2008 by Eric D. Greene

This poem was written in memory of Branden Whitworth,
who died Feb. 11, 2005, as he attempted to walk home after abandoning his truck in a rainstorm.