Monday, October 9, 2017

It's Like That (Day 264)

It isn’t a slow song that gets to me, 
but the shuffle of boots across
a sawdust floor, dry as august 
weeds, screen door banging against 
the frame from time to time, 
red dust coating on the chairs. 
It’s the way a certain singer’s voice 
breaks just there, at the edge of that 
single note, and how the steel guitar 
falls away from the band to sway 
through a slow swing solo. 
The beer is just okay. The crowd, 
rough as brand new, 
never-been-washed 501s.
But that boy, with the silver band 
around the crown of his dark brown hat? 
The way his eyes darken as he plays, 
and the skin at the nape of my neck 
tingles in anticipation? He brings me 
back, and back again.
It’s like the shuffle of bare feet on 
a wide-plank kitchen floor, the scent of 
strong coffee brewing on the frost-bitten 
edge of a long autumn morning. It’s like 
the sunlight glazing each falling leaf 
against the backdrop of a cedar forest, 
so the trees seem to be raining fire. 
Yeah. It’s like that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Charles C Pierce, Inside the Yellow Aster Saloon, Randsburg, California, ca.1900