Friday at Zuma's

Dust on the trucks in the morning. Same old turn of the highway

bend. That little sign for Placitas means I'm about to

see my friends. Boots on the floor, bell on the doorway,

sun sneaks in on the tile. Zuma's already buzzing. We're saving chairs with a smile.

Friday at Zuma's. Mugs up, talking 'bout nothing. Hours fly from old tall tales

to how you been. We laugh like kids. We're young again.

Friday at Zuma's. That's our town round table. Same old line, pour me another,

let's begin. Placitas men just checking in. Ooh. One's got stories