THE LAST PICTURE SHOW

I’d never heard of Jefferson, Texas,

but we stopped at their local Micky’s

for a large, unsweet iced tea.

I waited while you went in

as a couple of prom kids pushed

their way back out though the heat.

There was something beautiful

about their awkward distance

and quick glances. It was easy

to imagine both in spurs

and dusty Wranglers.

His black tux, cowboy boots

and hat as appropriate for a

funeral as a dance, a fine contrast

to her sequined teal gown

and shapely legs

above those, I don’t know...

five inch heels?

When they got to the F350,

it’s cab belt-buckle high,

and as sparkly as they,

he reached into the bed

for a little ladder, and held her hand

while she climbed safely inside.

I love Texas.

But it made me wonder how that scene

would have played out if the steps

had been forgotten back at the ranch,

the evening punctuated by a tangle

arms, butt cheeks, pink thong

and red faces.