I put my heart on the line. You spread your wings and fly.

Saw your car parked next door, that old Ford truck.

This is my town, where Daddy put my two feet on the ground. No one’s gonna put me in the ground.

Cut-offs and porch swings. That big blue sky. These old country roads. I could really lay it down, back in my prime. I ain’t as good as I once was. My oh my, how the years fly by. Gone in the blink of an eye.

When I was young, I used to paint the town. Cold beers. Hell on wheels. I threw a few back. Spick ‘n span, bottle or can? I feel just like a kid again. Now it’s off the deep end.

Remember when we were young? There was a fire in your eyes. We’d play smoochy smoochy, talk mooshy mooshy. Our heads filled with dreams, we planned our escape. You were hell on wheels [did I say that already?]. The Law. It missed us by a hair. Dashboard, floorboard, mudflaps. The woman that you love, back in your arms.

You can’t fault love. Sometimes the woman you love runs to the arms of another. Why couldn’t you be true? I got myself into a tight spot, but I can hold my own, same way I do those beers.

Things were easier then. Need to hold my head up high.

A game of pool. Acting like a fool. I’m sorry if I was wrong. Living for the highways, I got an earful. Now I’ve gotta make my stand.

Mamma was hard on us. She did the best she could. Barefeet. Newborn baby. Putting food on the table. Pride―when you leave this world behind, that’s something you can hang your hat on.

Across the corn field glows the pale moonlight.

Future’s looking bright. Not a cloud in sight.

I guess I’m doin’ alright.

Good luck. Bad luck. We were livin’ on luck, wishin’ it was love. But things went from bad to worse, drinking homemade wine from a Dixie cup. I’d head off to town, work all day long, sleep with the windows down. In the morning crank it up. Feet on the floorboard, cig on the dash. Put on some coffee, supper on the table. Front porch/back porch, love can walk through fire. Just bidin’ my time? It ain’t worth a dime. No old fashioned storybook romance. Deep down, you gotta be tough. Foreign cars in the yard, nothing like my old pickup truck. Slingin’ gravel, there’s no place I’d rather be.

Guess I’ll show myself the door.

Aaron Gilbreath is squandering what’s left of his youth in Phoenix, Arizona. His essays have appeared or are forthcoming in publications such as North American Review, Mississippi Review, Fugue, Passages North, Gargoyle, McSweeney’s.com, Alligator Juniper and Florida Review. He’s working on a book partly about what a mess he once was, partly about this amazing place up north and its beautiful people.