Death was something that hadn’t happened yet.
I was driving in my daddy’s pickup truck
At some late hour, the hour of broken luck.
It seeped up through the dashboard’s oubliette,
Clear voice through murk—the radio was set
Halfway between two stations and got stuck.
But the words sobbed through, and I was suddenly struck
Like a gut string in the key of flat regret.

The voice came from beyond the muddy river—
You know the one, the one that’s cold as ice.
Even then, it traveled like a shiver
Through my tributary veins—but twice
As melancholy to me now, because
I’m older than Hank Williams ever was.