One Friday night in Tucson
I told you to fetch your
Toothbrush and some cash,
We’d never been to Texas.
We drove through an
Inky, moon-dipped sky
Flanked by saddled mountains and a
Posse of saguaros saluting battle.
Interstate 10, due east,
Rolled tar in a straight shot,
The wind stinging our cheeks,
Musky scent of desert sage and coffee.
Humming songs on the radio,
Crunching wrappers underfoot,
Your toes and hands out the window,
My fingers thumping on the wheel.
At the border of New Mexico
Johnny Cash sang about doing
Time in Folsom Prison,
But that ain’t ever happen.
Hank Williams Jr sang about
Spitting beech-nut in some dude’s eye
And shooting him with his o’l .45,
Though he never did.
We told stories about how we’d hit Houston,
Take in a rodeo, hoot at cowboys in pickups,
Kick aside those buckle bunnies in their
Slick Wranglers and Justin ropers.
In between bites of truck stop jerky,
Pulling off dirt roads to piss behind palo verdes,
We hit El Paso at sunrise
Wearing wind and fire, ate at a diner
Asking how long to Houston, hanging our heads
With the answer, paid with coins and cash,
Took in the Rio Grande and turned around
Singing about how nothing lasts.
Though we didn’t believe it.