Smokey Wilson 1978 | Photo: Mark Weber
The fast of the road,
Speaks black. White lines dividing.
Parallels. Never touching.
Small towns; music growls with night.
Righteous eyes. Hands to heaven.
Robes of purple. Masks from hell.
Smiles in day. Torches burn air
Cricket legs. Rough with heat.
Back porch shoes slide for the in.
Songs of sorrow. Calloused hands.
Ribbons in the breeze.
Whiskey tastes just fine.