I hear a jukebox playing line-dance music
in Waffle House, the dishes banging percussion
and the singer’s voice covered by the murmur
of customers, slam of cash register, pan 
sizzling. This is almost the essence of it all,
of country music itself–in the din, a twang
of guitar, a whine of fiddle–pop open
a biscuit and hunker down–the soundscape
of my life.