My favorite uncle, Dean Witherspoon, died up in Michigan a couple of years ago. He was my father's little brother and the last of four brothers. He taught me a lot about life and love and family, including how to suck a raw egg, after lubricating my throat with several shots of cheap whiskey. He had quite a sense of humor. Following is a small tribute to him.
AND ALL WHO STAND BELOW
Last night after the sun tumbled
I heard my uncle singing the blues
at a club down along Sixth Street
even though I now hold the cartridges
from his twenty-one gun salute
in the belly of my calloused palm.
At midnight I sail over green water
thinking I never knew he played
the harp and wondering how he
came to play here in Austin without
me seeing his golden jeep pass by
our little house on Lavaca Street.
Holding the cancer cough tight
within his lungs with a hand over his
heart he teaches me how to suck
an egg by poking a hole in each
end then inhaling and gutting it out
with the help of cheap whiskey.
Why is no one mourning, I ask?
At the snowy cemetery in Michigan
he stands erect and tanned saluting
before he drops his pants to his ankles
and moons the emerging liquid stars
and all who stand below them.
