I still don’t know
I can remember the day I stopped taking anything seriously.
Reagan was just elected President
and I didn’t know what to do with myself.
So, I just drifted around in a haze.
I ran into Otis at a horse race in Phoenix Arizona.
I think I can remember that much.
He staggered up to me in a stained white suit and beat up straw hat.
We shook hands.
He introduced himself.
Do I know an Otis?
I had frequent occasion to bump into drunks, being one myself,
but the vague familiarity of his face triggered no immediate recognition.
Do you remember Mayfield? He asked.
On television? I asked
Exactly he answered.
Then Otis the town drunk staggered away
chuckling and talking to himself.
I wondered if he still talked to Floyd, or Andy or Barney or Aunt Bee.
But I didn’t ask him.
I went back to studying the racing form.
It was a dark comedy, perfect for America.
I haven’t really seen the sun since that day.
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