On 3  Feburary 1959, Waylon Jennings gave up his seat to the  J.P. Richardson, aka The Big Bopper, and so did not perish with him, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and pilot Roger Peterson. This week is a good time to post the following poem. 

In The Best of All Possible Worlds

In a backwater town
Far from the Interstate
But close to the siren call
Of rumbling freight trains,
I sit with Waylon Jennings,
Bottle and two glasses between us
In the glow of neon beer signs
Behind an empty bar.

Long-haired and bearded,
Freak and Outlaw we find
Common ground as we express
Who we are, as we chase
Our Holy Grails
Unconcerned with people telling us
We are wrong and foolish.

Each drink, each story, each joke
Fuses our spirits together.
We say the same thing
In different dialects.
Consensus does not imply
Betrayal of one’s roots
But the appreciation of another’s.

As rosy-fingered dawn spreads
From the east over the fields
Waylon and I revel in the
Best of all possible worlds
My lyrics melting into
His flawless music and
His gritty baritone voice.

Arthur Turfa, © 2015