the watering hole

Nothing is quite as classic as a man with a gun and his hound, patiently waiting for nothing, sitting in the duff without a sound/ the occasional mud stomping, squishy tobacco spit sound, onto the forest floor, but nothing startling enough to awaken the hound as he has heard this all before/ Is the man out there hunting after a long day of work, to feed his kids back home? Or is he hiding from the nagging housewife, who can’t seem to ever leave him the hell alone?/ Jerry the hound hops into the bed of the truck as the old man takes the wheel, with no need for a word or a whistle, the loyal man’s best friend sharply knows the deal/ Chuggin’ on down the bumpy road, suspension squeaking more than a child’s schoolhouse swing set, His fellow neighbors, the same few that have never left town, wave as they holler “G’d evnin’ Chet!”/ He parks the old rig in front of the closed barbershop, proceeds to walk around to the side door of the saloon, customarily pats ‘old man Bo’ on the shoulder, who never moves told by his red nose swollen like a balloon/ a napkin falls then held down by a rocks glass containing his ‘whiskey neat’, all in habitual instinctual motion happening before he could even grab his seat/ staring at his own reflection in the mirror behind the spirits, soot inhabits the desert cracks in his forehead as he has no concern for his appearance/ Jerry makes his way to the corner where the last little ribbon of sun shines in, patiently waits for Dusty to come out from behind the bar to place a water bowl under his chin/ Chet nods at Dusty while he riffles through the old jukebox selection, not sure why because they all knew he’d play the same song track 8 without any objection/ by the time that classic solo from ‘Free Bird’ played, the whiskey started to flow from the bottle resembling the Angel Falls cascade/ the chimelike sound of car keys and clunking boots streamed through the door, Chet saw his last window of opportunity and stuck up his index finger signaling for one more/ As he stood up, knocked on the bar top and gave his tip in the jar with a flipping throw, Jerry stretched and shook off his nap, made his way through the crowd as he knew it was time to go/ all eight cylinders working double-time to make it up the sharp steep hill, Jerry lie low on the floor of the cab cautiously making sure he’d not take a spill/ at the end of the long driveway he checked the empty mailbox, then opened the inessential useless creaking gate, impatiently Jerry runs to the house, for this ritual only Chet could appreciate/ the old hound waits to enter the empty, once lively house, as the old front door swings open so darn slow, the two of them retire to their easy chair and tattered rug, by the unlit fire, until tomorrow.