They'd Always Said

After his place went broke,
he’d taken one of those propane
tanks, a large silver thing
like a bullet, sliced it in two,
welded in a firebox,
brackets, latches, racks,
and made it into a barbecue.

With his first beer, he’d mix
green hickory and charcoal
to get the perfect smoke.
With his eighth or ninth,
he’d move the slabs
at the exact right time
to get an even cook,
like a rancher knowing
when the cow would calve.
He’d fed near the whole town
on July 4th and Homecoming.

They’d always said:
He’ll get himself killed as surely
as day follows night,
one of those trucks
coming from the quarry,
barreling down Route 4
and he, tight as a boot,
won’t stop at the stop sign.
They’d often included
that tow-headed boy of his
in the disaster.

In fact, the truck
drove into his Ford 250
after the last bar had closed,
and he was alone.