As we drive this narrow rough of muted dirt, I might
admit – this one time – that you somehow drew me back.

Eyes half-closed, the door swung open
to the bare breeze, your feet pressed flat
against the heat-soaked dash.
You sat in the car singing like a thrush.

Gone as I was, I heard
the crackling twang of some lo-fi Lucinda
layered beneath the slender current of your voice.

Just within reach of your echoes,
I pushed past parched thistles, wrapped in dust and doubt.

Stumbling in the first husks, suddenly I am simply kneeling –
toes pressed back, bare knees crushed,
everything dry but the nape of my neck.

Your voice rose: following it,
I ignored the withering slash, lost in this thicket.

John Sarvay

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-is-not-a-country-song/