He really wasn’t our uncle, we just called him that because
he and dad used to sit at the kitchen table
every Friday night drinking
Pabst Blue Ribbon beer by the case
they smoked Pall Mall straights
played penny poker and listened to
country music.
Johnny Cash was their favorite and
I could tell when they were really drunk because
they’d sing a muddled rendition of
“A Boy Named Sue.”
Uncle Joe would declare to dad
in his gravelly voice, one eye squinted with
ever-present cigarette hanging from his lip
“Hell, if I owned a bar Mickey and Johnny walked in
his money wouldn’t be any damn good.”
Dad would quip, “Yeah, yeah, if you had a bar, Joe
you’d drink yourself out of business
now shut up and deal.”
The next morning, we always found them passed out
having a snoring contest, we kids used to say
dad on the couch, uncle Joe hunched over
the kitchen table, one muscular tattooed arm stretched out
the other dangling
as I helped mom quietly clear away beer cans
before we kids sat down for our morning bowl
of cornflakes, snickering.
Adding your comment:
) but we always looked forward to the next weekend of music and the laughter of good friends. 
