Justin Rutledge is every small town boy who shares his cigarettes and his flask with the paperboy’s parents on quiet evenings while waiting for the mail in a neighbourhood where Walt Whitman lives next door. He is the writer of lost hymns never bound in any book. Instead, he offers them up as the salt of the earth surrounding some old one-room cabin where he sits on the porch with his last pack of smokes, his banjo and a bottle of gin, staring at the leafless tree in the yard.