Sometimes I like to think,
as Cash tucked his black shirt
into his leather belt and black pants and
shined the toe of his boot
with a little spit and a rag,
that he had me in mind,
fingers on his machine head,
in my self important moments
walking the long hill home and
palms grayer than the morning,
covered thick with aluminum dust and
sweat slurried grains of floor tile.
