on the road again

At the mini mart after the concert
my mother and Willie Nelson
bump into each other
at the beer cooler,
angels flying too close to the ground,
one with two long braids
and a red bandana,
the other a red-headed stranger.
A hot night in the City of New Orleans.
Crazy. A jam-packed amphitheater.
Willie needs to get back to the tour bus;
my mother her minivan. She can't
help but recognize him; his mind's
gone to pot on a whiskey river he poured
backstage, but he thinks he might
have known her, might have seen her
in the crowd. His hair shines
like silver wings folded back
from his face. "My heroes
have always been cowboys,"
she tries, hoping for a smile.
"It's funny how time slips away,"
he replies. There's no translation
needed. He grabs a six pack
and they take their beer and
wine coolers to the cash register,
the clueless attendant ringing
them up with a mouth full
of gum, Chewing like a goddamn cow,
thinks Willie, or a horse--
a goddamn horse without a saddle.
"It'll be a Bloody Mary morning
tomorrow," says Willie,
talking to my mother,
but she has slipped out the door,
shaking and desperate to tell
my father about the encounter,
and he's stranded at the cash register
with the half-grown mute.
Story of my life, he thinks:
Before I knew it, she was gone.