Sometimes I wonder what it might feel like
to live just outside town
in a house where folks keep night up too late
and I’d write you a song
and lay out our lives in chorus and verse—
call up our living in a simple way.
But I’ve never picked up a guitar. Never felt
its smooth neck in my arms
or felt the tension go out of its strings like t
he slow chill of a summer’s end.
I’ve heard it’s having a revival resting
on its wide river and it’s time to go.
Sometimes, I think how it might be to buy
that spot out of town with the money
I saved—anyone could stay the night.
And you’d look over one night like Dolly’s
song I sing inside, imagining I wrote it
for you, take me back to where we started from.