Some years from now, when I’m working the circuit, I’ll be an old cowboy in Spain, ordering drinks with my Mexican accent and falling asleep on the train.
I’ll never blend in with my boots and my turquoise, at festivals, dance halls, and bars. Searching the shops and the Spanish flea markets for an old, used flamenco guitar.
Far far away from the South Texas border, seeking uncharted terrain.
An old cowboy in Spain.
Learning the dances and dialects there from people I meet in the towns, who’ll give you a smile when it’s really a smile, and a frown when it’s really a frown.
Far far away from the South Texas border, seeking uncharted terrain. An old cowboy in Spain.
An old cowboy in Spain.