God I miss the days when you could show up to a strangerâs farm and heâd say âWhatâs your name, boy?â and youâd take off your hat and hold it to your chest to better let him see your face and reply âWhy I ainât got none, sir, on account of my mammy passed on before she could give me oneâ and heâd tell you heâs real damn sorry to hear that and ask what he can do you for and youâd tell him that you canât read nor even write neither but youâre mighty good with horses and can mend them fallen fence posts what you saw on your way in and wonât ask for nothing much more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in and heâd keep his wife and daughters inside but send his boy who ainât got married yet even though his mama tells him he needs a woman out with a lantern and some stew at night and the two of youâd get to talkin and heâd throw you his flask to take a swig from and watch you drinkin from it while he leant against the door frame and when he finally got called back on up to the house again heâd take a sip from it too real slow-like like it werenât the whiskey what he were tryna savour
you see you donât get posts like this on twitter
every day at least once while on a walk i think to myself âit werenât the whiskey what he were tryna savourâ and sometimes if i am alone i say it out loud
