Down in the Tin Pan Alley was where he died

Somewhere north of Madison

Nothing on but women’s garters and some chipped nail polish; one high heel shoe to the right side of the belly,

or flank if you’re in law enforcement and would like to be precise about it.

Said the police officer that took the statement:

“A man really shouldn’t have to die that way, so far from home.”  But what he really meant was a man shouldn’t die in a dress north of Madison with nothing in his pockets except a box of matches and some soap.  Maybe a bobby pin to tie the wig back up, if necessary. A roll of quarters. 

Yes, his uncle died that way.  Couldn’t stay away from the drink and nobody understood why with the factory, and the pretty wife, and the children, and the chickens and goats and all.  The man had a silo, for god’s sake.  And a porch swing. 

Lemonade on a hot day. 

And an electric shoe-shiner which back then was a big deal he says with dynamic emphasis as if trying to make a point.  “I may be stupid, but at least I’ll have a shine on my shoes” was one of his favorite personal sayings. 

What more could he want?

His uncle left the country in search of booze and city life and no one heard from him since.  Not until the phone call that he was at the morgue in North Madison. 

Found in a Tin Pan Alley with hardly anything on, he says as he shakes his aging head.  An old man thinking back to a significant event laid low by shame. 

He really did exist, he insists.  He really did.