'Twas Tuesday, about five
when there was a shy tap
at my door, I opened to find
a pretty woman, workday attired,
a package in her arms, asking
if I was Peter, eyes cast a bit
downward, not fully looking
at me. Yes, I said, and she
looked directly at me,
handed me the package,
explaining it had been left
at her door, then smiled
and said welcome to Denton,
since I'd just moved in.

I closed the door, bewitched
by the smile, the calm of her
not overly made up eyes,
the way her hair was brushed,
but not overly so, the slim fit
of her business attire, the way
her lips moved like a dance
of friendly words.

Day later, a knock again,
this time bolder, pleasing lips
inviting me to a soiree
at a friend's, of course
I went, a year later
we were married, 42 years
later we're still together,
every day I admire her smile,
hair, and the loving words
that dance from her lips.
                        

Every western song needs a verse
about a cowboy and a barmaid,
   
he, in his chaps and spurs, hat
pulled down over unseen eyes, standing
at the bar drinking his whiskey neat,

she, in her blue and white calico dress
trading wit with men hot off the trail,
perhaps seeking her company.

In the second verse there's a bar
heist with a shotgun wielding outlaw
demanding money from the blackjack-playing
ranch hands, gun shots interrupting the piano
music playing softly in the background..

In the third, the town sheriff arrives just in time
to slay the outlaw with a single blast between
the eyes, then settling himself at the bar
where the bartender pours him a thankful drink.

As music again plays in the background,
a rattlesnake shakes his tail.