I’ve had a tune running through my mind this morning, as I find myself humming the verse and not being able resist breaking right out into a low-voice chorus. Of course, by then, I’ve lost track of the Longmire CD that’s accompanying my kitchen chores, and I have to seek out the little remote with soapy hands once again.
Maybe it’s what they’d call a "catchy tune," and maybe it’s the words and rhythm of the story that are providing sound-track to my day. And memory, as well, for I’ve sat in little small-town bars to listen to the band, or to have an evening of dancing with friends and strangers, my face pressed to the crisp starchiness of a cowboy shirt, or being two-stepped around a crowded, swirling floor of boots and skirts and saved-for-special jeans, with the scents of Polo and Shalimar and Brut wafting us along like the music of a carousel.
And there WERE the lonelies, the drink-hoverers, the eager-eyed too-flash women past a prime of their own choosing, most of them filling-the-hours til the drink or tired or sadness sent them home to a depthless sleep and the blast of SundayMorning.
As I've said before, ain't no poets like them as write Country Songs.