I was standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona next to a flatbed Ford when I glanced up to see a liaison, or facsimile thereof, in the window above me. Was the subject girl, my lord, the owner of said vehicle? Was that real hanky panky on the second floor or a vestige of my aging but vivid imagination? It makes me remember being picked by a dish in a pick-up in Florence, Arizona when I was twenty. That led to absolutely nothing. Thank you very much.
I was heading to El Paso for a gig at folk club there and to visit a lady friend, not necessarily in that order, I caught a lift in Tucson, dozed off shortly thereafter and woke up in the hospital in Lordsburg, New Mexico with 60 stitches being sewn into by scalp. Even today you'll see aftermath of the butchery on my forehead just above my right eye
My alleged doctor told me that my benefactor had rear ended a flatbed truck a few miles east of Tucson.
Yes folks, there is one too many flatbed trucks in this tale.
3 comments:
The picture is a prize-winner. The narrator of the (still) picture is a wordsmith and imaginarion, a dreamer and recaller. Good stuff, old pal o' mine.
John
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