He was twenty, she was twenty-one

He was twenty, she was twenty-one
when they met on the old street with the red house.
He lived a life on the road, seeing the South,
drinking beer, and butchering wild hogs in motel bathtubs.
She was leaving a life spent on the road since birth,
North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, and down to Louisiana.

He was playing football in the street with Jerry
when she drove by with her friend in the van.
"He's cute," she said, and pointed at the one with dark hair.
"I know them," her friend answered, "Do you want me to introduce you?"
Less than a year later, she was pregnant without knowing it.
On her way back to Florida, something said turn around.

I often wonder what they would be had they not met then,
if they had stayed single, if I were just another seeing spirit in the cedar house.
If he would be a drunk redneck or a broke cokehead
or a faithful family man, devoted to God and to his wife and kids.
If she would be a bitter old woman like her mother or a wild party woman
or a nurturing pelican, a nurse, a martyr.

I hope neither outlives the other, at least not by many later years.
I don't reckon they'd know what to do without each other.
He would spend his days pruning shrubs and squinting in the sun,
she would likely read about religion in bed and cry before sleeping.