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IT HUNG IN THE SMOKEHOUSE FOR YEARS ON END,
JUST AN OLD BLACK COAT THAT NO ONE WOULD MEND.
THE LAST ONE TO WEAR IT WORE IT IN DEATH,
HE HAD IT ON WHEN HE BREATHED HIS LAST BREATH.
MY MEMORIES OF HIM ARE WEAK AND FEW,
BUT I HEARD MANY TALES OF THE LIFE HE KNEW.
BACK IN THE THIRTIES IN EAST TENNESSEE,
JOBS WERE SCARCE AND TIMES WERE HARD FOR A FAMILY.
IN ORDER TO SURVIVE, SOME TURNED TO THE BAD
THE DEEP MOUNTAIN HOLLOWS WERE ALL THEY HAD.
THE MOONSHINE STILL GAVE HOPE FOR MEN WHO WERE DOWN
THEY MADE AND SOLD CORN WHISKEY ‘TIL OFFICERS CAME AROUND.
HE WAS CAUGHT AND PUT UNDER A PRISON GUARD BOSS
SENTENCED TO BRUSHY MOUNTAIN, IN THE HILLS OF PETROS.
HE’D ALWAYS PLAYED TUNES ON HIS OLD GUITARS
SO, DURING HIS CONFINEMENT, HE PICKED BEHIND BARS.
IN HIS TIME OF INCARCERATION, AND AWAY FROM THE ROCK-PILE
SOME AFRICAN-AMERICANS SHOWED HIM A NEW PICKING STYLE.
THEY FINGER-PICKED THE BLUES WITH A BROKEN BOTTLENECK
HE LEARNED THESE SOUNDS AS EACH TUNE HE’D COLLECT.
WHEN HE’D SERVED HIS TIME AND CAME BACK TO HIS HOME
HE HAD NO OTHER DESIRE TO RAMBLE OR ROAM.
HE MET MY WIDOWED GRANDMOTHER, THEY CHOSE TO WED
ALL HIS MISTAKES AND EARLY WRONGS, SHE HELPED HIM SHED.
FOR A FEW SHORT YEARS, THEY LABORED TOGETHER
IT WAS THEIR INTENTION TO BE FAITHFUL FOREVER.
BUT THERE CAME A NIGHT AT OUR COMMUNITY SCHOOL
WHEN AN OFFICER OF THE LAW THOUGHT HE’D BROKEN A RULE.
THOUGH THE DEPUTY WAS MISTAKEN, THE TRUTH HE REFUSED
HE RESISTED HIS DEMANDS, HE WOULD NOT BE ABUSED.
THEY STRUGGLED, A GUN WAS FIRED, THE BULLET ENTERED HIS CHEST
AN INNOCENT MAN LAY DEAD, IN HIS BLACK COAT DRESSED.
I REMEMBER THE OLD BLACK COAT WITH ITS LARGE GAPING HOLE
TO MY YOUNG AND FERTILE MIND, IT SPOKE OF A STORY TOLD.
MY GRANDMA WAS A WIDOW FOR THE SECOND TIME
AND THIS TIME IT WAS BECAUSE OF A LEGALIZED CRIME.
HE DIED IN THIRTY-NINE, WHEN I WAS ONLY FOUR
BUT I RECALL THAT NIGHT OF SORROW, IT’S A MEMORY I KEEP IN STORE.
I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE KNOWN HIM IN MY YOUNG DAYS
I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW MORE OF HOW HE CHANGED HIS WAYS.
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