Shadows spill onto the cement lawn. Bluebird is a tent of warmth where locals, dressed in winter cloths wait. One song. Two songs and everyone goes home.
Young kids wait till seniority to become gay. Finger picking away keystrokes above the fret. Crickets don't dance on the lawn, as winter cloths have muffled them away.
The line is still but always moving, like a fan above the first table. The player on stage, a cowboy in slacks and a colored shirt from Dell, plays an original in E, sounding like the thousands of others.
The virtue assassins have all gone home. True dream chasers and local tourists fend for seats.
A young boy sings about love and loss. Get off the stage a women shells out ten cents that hits his left eye. Not a strike a the blind wager is an upended bet.
