Phil Rice

Honeyboy Edwards
 

Two months in a boxcar

keeps your mama dry;

she passes smooth in the morning light,

and Aunt Retha holds your hand

She just about broke you, too

Water soaks her heartstrings

takes her dying breath;

she’s laying down cold at Green Grove Church,

and Aunt Retha holds your hand

The chords and years just flew and flew

Retha rocks in her chair

           tapping to the band;

they raise corn and beans on her grave, now,

           and you boogie on the box

you do.

Phil Rice lives in a little hideaway in the Smokies where he reads, writes, listens to music, and takes long walks looking for food.

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