I’m sitting in a booth
at an east Texas ice house.
Waiting in the smoky shadow of blues
for the local boy done good.
Listening to the rumble of Ducati on the rocks,
the clink of cubes and glass
a jukebox’s rhythmic whirl.
The deep lonesome moan of a stool
sliding across old pine floors, crooning.
Swinging jazz, cold beer, and
Louisiana hot sauce hissing back at me.
With soft sandy boot falls,
two-stepping into my heart
he enters.
Tall and thin, dark and smiling,
hat in his hand,
picking my cold steel
heartstrings and asking,
Ma’am, is this seat taken?
No, I say, just me.
Just Lovett.