The Water of West Texas

This is a painting by Frank Reaugh of a west Texas river. In the poem that follows, I did walk down to this river from the highway and felt the way I managed to write it. The water was surprisingly cold for a hot August day.
1976, boy- to be that young again.

STRANDED You want to know why I balk At west Texas; at working the rigs There another summer? You ever been stranded On the white shoulder Of a little highway, of a little town, And chatted with the boys Who’ve driven out from their cruising To discover where you’re going? You ever spent the night Rolled in the wet grass below And slept late because of the silence? You forget to think With the itch to go And you take a ride With a red-bearded rancher Who’s turning off in five miles. The beer he offered for breakfast Makes you steam like the dew rising Before the sun. Across the high dry concrete And the dust settling after, There was a brook running so Shallow and clear, it was ice in the sand. The water falling from your fingers Could be her cold tresses in the shower; The smooth sand, her hip beneath the sheet. But there was no need to recall her, I could soothe my throbbing scalp And fill my canteen In the frozen moment Where a breeze might seem like a wild desire Only dreamt of. You’ve never waited all day For the good ride, And when it finally comes (A moving van, pushing ninety, Through the rolling hills at dusk) You’ve not been made to explain To the driver, younger than yourself, Why you’ve left her. It couldn’t be the beer every evening, The long crying spells, Or that your friends wouldn’t come around Any more, But what could you say to a stranger? One that tells you, you’re wrong? You could get out at the next stop. Then alone, Wish to go back to where the water runs Like ice in your veins, For now you’ve recalled her And you must bow your head And hold out a thumb to get away from there.