The blue shirt put its arms around
The faded pair of jeans;
The purple gabardines.
A daring pair of Western shirts
Swung past me in a blur;
Dragging along two halter tops
Of fabric gossamer.
My word! Did I just catch a glimpse
Of someone’s precious thong?
As it faded in the spinning, swinging,
Writing rainbow throng.
Waylon is wailing out his heart,
The dance is in full swing;
Waiting for Waylon to be done are
Shania and The King.
In its hazy, acrid, smoky air
I quaff some fluid brown;
As if my lonesome sorrows into
A cheap plastic cup drown.
“Why can’t I be like Garth or Hank
or some other hepcat?”
I wondered while sorting my load
At the local Laundromat.