Down with Dickey

I remember when I heard he had joined Duane,

happy for him, miserable for us.

Without him, the band surely would have spun out

worse than the motorcycle under the genius

too talented for this world—even God

wanted to hear that beer bottle on those strings,

took him from us,

even worse, from them, the brothers

of southern rock. And whatever would this wretched world have come to

if Dickey hadn’t been the glue,

hadn’t picked up Duane’s guitar,

breaking the neck of a bud

to slide those strings, keep the music

alive

through loss after heartbreaking loss,

the brother from another mother who had to go solo

to get his name on the bill,

bringing Elizabeth Reed, Seven Turns,

Jessica

to soothe our souls while we’re tied

to the whipping post, feeling

like we’re dying

when Dickey takes us all the way down

into her depths, bringing us back up

to make us feel how good it is,

that low feels like heartbreak;

sinking to rise.

Oh, Dickey knew and I do, too,

coming back to where

it all begins,

Southbound revival,

a ramblin’ man with one way out.

Sweet bougainvillea,

let him know he’s free.

Thank God for their sons, still bringing the brothers to us.