Dan Abernathy

Coors in a Can


He would slice Velveeta cheese

real thick.

He would slice an onion

even thicker.

Putting them together,

taking a bite

the moisture of the onion

sent flavor into the air.

A few moments of chewing

everything mixed

was washed down

with a can of Coors beer.


Coors in a can

was his monster

and his monitor.

A road trip or a drive

was not twenty miles away,

it was a three

or four-beer drive.

These were his treats.

His vice,

was the Winston cigarette

that always dangled

from his mouth.


With a black felt Stetson

cowboy hat,

Tony Lama boots

and in the summer,

Bermuda shorts.

He was one of the grandest men

I have ever known.


Things changed

when he started pissing himself.

He could not control

what the disease,

that was attacking him from inside,

was doing.


He sliced some Velveeta cheese

real thick.

He sliced an onion

even thicker.

Putting them together,

taking a bite,

the moisture of the onion

sent flavor into the air.

A few moments of chewing

then washed down

with Coors in a can.


He took his hat off

and for the first time

laid it down

brim first.

He struck a wooden match

and put it to the end of the Winston

dangling from his mouth

and filled his lungs with smoke.

One last drink

that emptied

the Coors in a can.


Then did something

he never thought possible.

He placed the muzzle

of his Colt revolver

deep into his mouth.




I’m Missing


I’m missing

the bump-start breakfast of

think sliced bacon,



and Jack Daniels in my coffee,

hot and without cream.


I’m missing

the long wide-open days of

cross tops,


cheep grass,

even cheaper beer

and the road trips isolated from all that is.


I’m missing

the carefree evenings

that turned into dawn,

tequila shots,

loud music that made you dance,

the party girls that lived to live,

and the ones that had misplaced

the word known as “No.”


I’m missing

the understanding

that it has came to this,

stiffness and pain when I stand up,

a constant buzzing in my ears,

weight that seems to be here to stay,

and hair that won’t.

Rice and fruit in the mornings,

salads at night

and cheap wine from a black box,

because it’s just easier.


I’m missing

the mishaps and adventures rousing

the reason why I write

this constant stream of thoughts

that tumble from my existence,

the ones that are ruled by none,

while wondering if someday

Perhaps you’ll miss them too.


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