Jesus turned the water into wine and all the alcoholics’
kids turned out just fine, we think. We drink moonshine,
muscadine wine, nickel beer that’s been laying lazy
in the back of someone’s banged up truck and turned
skunk weeks ago. We shotgun beers at noon and our only
fear is we’ll run out by noon-thirty. We guzzle until
we’ve no muzzle, telling everybody’s business and tales
that grow ten feet taller every time they’re retold. It never
gets old. This town’s motto is drink now, repent later. Let he
who has a free hand, cast the first beer. He who’s the most
sober can go lasso that loose steer some ole boy in town keeps
hollerin’ about. We don’t doubt that somebody’s watching
over us as we barrel down the highway, flirting with the guard-
rail, but coming up empty-handed every night. We don’t
forget to ask forgiveness. We just can’t quite remember
what for.