Ya ever been driving cross country

late on a summer Saturday night?
and ya drive past a road house a few miles outside some strugglin’ little farming town,
and the parking lot is full,
so ya turnaround and find a place to park, way in back,
and when ya shut off the engine you can hear them screamin’ guitar blues,
and ya can’t keep yourself away.
So you scuffle with road weary legs across the dusty, crunchin’ gravel to the big front doors,
and the bouncer lets you through for free, ‘cause it’s late and the band is on its last set.
The joint is open, dark and boozy, and sweat mixes with a dozen perfumes drifting
in the smoky air.
Ya bum a smoke, a camel strait, from a woman who doesn’t look at you,
but hands you the pack she holds in her slender hand.
Then ya see that everybody has stopped dancin’ to listen while some kid
is stranglin’ the neck of a baby blue Stratocaster, and the place, breathless as the dawn,
revels in disbelief.

© 2005 KEH