It's hot in Austin, Texas.
Tourists huddle indoors and gripe
about the summer heat.
"They're laughing at us," Mary says,
signaling to the Tejanos in denim
and long sleeves laying asphalt.
We are drinking ice-cold beer
in the afternoon at Guero's Taco Bar.
It's weird in Austin, Texas.
Misfits and malcontents make their home
in the Lone Star State capital.
"I'm running for Mayor," Leslie announces,
hiking her miniskirt to reveal
(MAY)(OR!) written in permanent marker
across freckled butt cheeks.
Will Bill offers his legal services pro bono.
It's loud in Austin, Texas
Live music rattles the cityscape
with a bluesy, honky-tonk vibration.
"Who's playing the Continental?" Victor asks
reaching for the weekly Chronicle:
Dale Watson has the ten o'clock show,
Tony Price headlines Saxon Pub,
Charlie Sexton at Antone's.
Creativity flourishes in Austin, Texas.
Every service industry person
has a side hustle in the arts.
"Read my screenplay?" Hannah asks.
I don't want to read it, but consent anyway.
Here, we tip our musicians,
buy local art, attend opening night.
Yes is the currency we spend.
It's harsh in Austin, Texas.
A hostile climate chases off
the weak and infirm.
"This is Comanche territory," Tocho declares.
"Our ancestors suffered raiding hordes,
forced slavery, pestilence and disease."
Carmen reminds him that most of us
are from somewhere else.
It's hip in Austin, Texas.
Newcomers flood the city
from all corners of America.
"Hundreds a day!" Sarah laments.
Scaffolds and cranes dot the horizon.
The skyline swells like a fever.
We measure time by what disappears,
swear it was ours for a while.
It's home in Austin, Texas.
The city forgives your failures,
never asks what you left behind.
"It gets into your blood," Eddie says.
He came for a weekend in 1987
and found his tribe under the live oaks.
The Colorado river carries our secrets
down to the Gulf.
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