The traveller was a lady,
Going down the backroads,
Down toward old San Antone.
Oh, so Texas is the countryside,
Towns with colorful names,
Glen Rose of dinosaur track fame,
Hico, Lampasas, State heros, too.
Listenin' to the classic station,
About 100 miles out,
The signal went away.

Tuned in another clear one,
In the country hearing Waylon, Willie, and the Boys,
Even Randy Jackson, Johnny Cash,
Folsom Prison.
Rolling wintergrass yellow hills,
Dotted with black-green balls of cedar,
Around the bend a white marble bluff,
Glistening in a hot, sweeping Texas-sized sunset
Orange, purple blue, loud,
Blink an eye and the town is gone.
This traveler hungry and tired.

Stopped at an old cafe,
A little neon "open" sign flashing,
No name, but clean with a coffee smell,
Country family or two, little boys,
Hangout for ranchers, truckdrivers and such.
Smokers accepted.
Moon-sized plates of chicken fried steak,
French fries, corn, gravy, fried, fried.
The traveler enjoying the sights,
Fried, Fried, and then she spied a chef's salad,
Ate it hungrily with hot coffee and country music.
At a table for two where all sneaked stares at her,
A citified woman alone in a town that knew everyone!

Her eyes were curious, too.
Every other road vehicle a pickup truck,
All now parked around this cafe it seemed.
Every man scruffy, weathered-faced.
Every man wore boots in various conditions,
Every man save one a cap on his head,
His favorite team or tractor maker logo-ed.
One handsome young man wore a Stetson,
(Suspect he was a city son come home).
None took them off inside.
Waylon and Willie would have made them,
For they were men of manners!
But would they have oogled the country lady,
Still wearing shorty pajama bottoms
And blue house shoes?

Oh, well, who cares?
Certainly not the strange citified woman
At the table for two.
Refreshed, the traveler paid her check,
(Waitress wouldn't let her pay for coffee)
Heads down the road,
Passing cattle grazing,
Horse farms,
Baby sheep for sale;
A yellow vintage 1900 house
In the middle of nowhere,
A many gabled old mansion,
With an experimental solar-paneled roof,
In the middle of nowhere,
An old saloon worthy of
Billy the kid's shootout with Pat Garrett,
A ways down a tiny church,
Tall white steeple,
Bedecked with a Christmas wreath.
In the middle of nowhere.

Population finally increases,
Signs, traffic, noise, Christmas lights,
Shoppers, Wal-Mart and McDonald's
And every man in a cap,
Of his own choosing.
Country music signal went out,
Flipped the tuner to Christmas music,
Hummed Silent Night,
To the end of the road
And a happy reunion.


By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


 

 

 

 


Watch these pages for other poems by Norma.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.



Haiku By Mikey (Norma)

A Cowboy's Touch

Kinds Of Poets

Tiptoe Through My Mind

The Calendar

Snow

But I Can't Sing

Simple Pleasures

Hugs And Kisses

Cocoon

You Are My Love, My Life

Winter's Bite Brings Dreams Of Spring's Delight





And.......for many others, click the index image.



Graphics by Marilyn
http://graphicsbymarilyn.com

graphicsbymarilyn@yahoo.com