Fallout (Crank 3)

of pills and brew, he’ll talk

about growing up in a little

backwater town maybe

six hours north of here.

Sweetwater may not be so

very far from San Antonio,

but it’s a wide world apart.

We were possum poor and not

exactly unhappy being that way.

’Course we didn’t know better.

My pa was a born-again Baptist,

and Sunday was the best day

of the week because Baptists

respect the Sabbath. Weren’t

no cotton rows hoed on Sunday,

that’s for sure. Not a single one.

His accent is honey-thick Texas.

But Aunt Cora’s is a mild imitation.

She moved to California young,

when Maureen divorced Grandfather.

Still, she carries a hint of Good

Ol’ Boy (Girl?) in her inflection.

Me? I’m fighting it, though it may

be a losing battle. Still, despite

living in Texas for most of my life,

somehow it isn’t Home. And

the really messed-up part of that

is, I have no clear idea where

Home might be. It’s not here

in San Antonio. Not with Grandfather