Texas Guitar Man

I was in West Texas, driving through long stretches of nothing, then little towns where stores on the dusty main street were empty and closed: Windows still advertised sales ending five years ago.

The only living buildings were churches, and  convenience stores on the highway.

Then I saw a man sitting on a bench, playing a guitar. He was the only human on the street except me.

He was decorated with badges and sunglasses, a bristled face, and a hat so old the felt was worn clear through.

He could play.

Maybe it was “Desperado,” maybe “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain.” Maybe it was something he made up; half cowboy, half blues.

I don’t know who he was, and I’ve forgotten the name of the town: Someplace between Post and Sonora, Pecos and Paint Rock.

Texas. It grabs your heart.

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