Papa

I sit on a cold, concrete porch,
Watching my Papa’s spit can,
I lean against the porch post,
And wait for the ping of his strike.

After walking the vegetable garden,
This was the next most exciting thing,
For this red headed, Texas youngster,
Visiting up north ‘cross the Red River.

He grins like a purring cat,
And looks me straight in the eye,
Just before he aims to spit,
Ping! About 80% in the can!

God, how I loved that man,
I don’t think he ever knew how much,
He always smelled of tobacco,
Coffee and Oklahoma red dirt.

What a man! What a spitter!
My grandma was even better,
Because her can was closer,
Papa was always good to Grandma.