Virga

It’s 101 in the shade of
the steakhouse veranda;
nobody’s goin’ out there
to dig into a sizzling rib eye.

He sits alone,
just a beater six string for company,
belting out Tejas-tinged blues.

Top down in the parking lot,
I stop for a tune or two.
He pays me no mind,
eyes closed, playing for those
who first shaped the music.

I start to roll and he looks over;
I give a thumbs up and
he smiles, jerks his chin,
starts into another tune.