Gate City Breakdown

Like a vein of hard coal, it was the strike

We fantasized, the pocket of sure reward we sidestepped the roadblocks

            for

In southwest Virginia , seemed in its hillside

Above the North Form of the Holston River .

One afternoon before Christmas

In 1953, we crossed the bridge from Tennessee on a whiskey run,

Churchill and Bevo Hammond and Philbeck and I,

On the backroad where they chased us, we left Sheriff’s Patrol in

            their own dust,

And washed ours down with Schlitz on the way home.

Jesus, it’s so ridiculous, and full of self-love,

The way we remember ourselves,

                                                      and the dust we leave…

Remember me as you will, but remember me once

Slide-wheeling around the curves,

                                                letting it out on the other side of the line.