There’s more to come about how George Strait became my poetry muse, but for now, here’s a poem inspired by his song “Run.” Some of the lyrics are interspersed.
Alpine
She’s up early. Lingers with coffee, wonders how she’s stuck in Dallas, of all places. Turns on the radio, steps in the shower. When she gets out, her phone’s ringing. It’s him. She listens, doesn’t say much. Then he says, “Don’t you walk to me.
Baby, run.”
She doesn’t answer, just hangs up softly. Grabs her bag, throws in that nightgown, a toothbrush. Baby, run. Out to the Chevy, the one he hates. (He’s a Ford man.) Fires it up. Takes that shortcut to the highway, the one that runs by the high school where they met. Baby, run. Steps on the gas and off the clutch. Drives til she needs gas. So distracted she puts in super unleaded. Leaves Dallas in the dust. Interstate. Headed west. Past Cowtown. Won’t let that speed limit slow her down. She goes on and breaks it. Relaxes when she hits Abilene. It’s all behind her now. On to Big Spring. Already, things look different. Baby, run. Hello, Midland. Bye, Odessa. Straight in a straight line to Mohanas. Pick up I-10. She can’t get there fast enough. Down to Fort Stockton, stop at McDonald’s. Gosh, she hasn’t eaten. She needs him in a rush. On Highway 67, cuts a path across the blue skies. Why’d it take her so long? Out there ain’t where she oughta be. She belongs here, where the mountains rise straight out of the desert. She slows at his ranch, just a few miles out from town. The road slopes down, so she does what she always used to do—puts it in neutral. Coasts home.
