Hiding in Heaven

I can just see you up there,
tipped back in an old chair on the porch,
sipping a beer,
looking down on our foolishness.

You're chewing snoose, spitting
into an old soup can.
'Gol-damn, I thought they'd know better
by now.'

Apparently we didn't learn a thing
in the last twenty years - no surprise there.
You're the only one among us had any sense.

Sure as I'm born, I know you're up there:
all dogs go to heaven and you were a bad dog.
A handsome dog.
Dog-gone.