(for Ernest Tubb)

The road house looked older than the brown dust
swirling between its grey slats,
sneaking into my car, my lungs, my hair,
sometimes settling, sometimes moving on.

We thought we'd settle for a while -- a cold afternoon beer --
a Lone Star on the road from Dallas to Austin.
A beat-the-heat treat. Some cheap illusion.

Darkness pushed us as we pawed our way in
to that weathered-as-an-old-stick-fence bar.
The huge dance floor surrounded by tables beckoned
a jukebox. A few cowboys sat spread around cooling.

No matter I was with a guy, this tall
likeweatheredearth cowboy comes
over -- asks me to dance the Texas Two-Step. I said
I didn't know how to. . .. He said he'd teach me.
I agreed, and we hesitated away.

The cowboy sure knew how to hold, how to move,
how to be there -- how to make me there.
Ernest Tubb was on the jukebox and we all
Waltzed Across Texas with you in my arms. . .

The cowboy stayed; I moved on --
on the road from Dallas to Austin,
on the road to almost learning how to hold and
how to be held
and how to waltz across Texas. . .