Bar - Norman, Oklahoma, 2015

I HAVEN’T DANCED SINCE

It’s dark tonight in this small town, except for

an arrow of light from my motorcycle’s headlight. 
And the neon beer signs on Main Street.  And
it’s quiet enough to hear the dust settle on
cottonwood leaves, from Earth’s dry lungs
and soft breath.  This silence, upset by the faint
twang of a Merle Haggard song, seeping through
weathered cracks at the bar downtown. 

I walked inside and saw Ben leaning backwards

into the bar, weary eyed, hat pulled low, looking
like James Dean in the movie Giant.  A farrier
by day, bronc rider by night.  We toasted the
night, tapping together longneck bottles.  And
then I noticed his hands: steer hide skin, scabrous
and broken, fingernails thick and unshorned from
hammer and steel, of the Earth and of fire.    

Ben’s girlfriend arrived.  And they hit the dance

floor with an energy I haven’t seen since my Navy
days.  Boots gliding over the shimmering dance
floor in pink neon light.  Two forward one back. 
Two back one forward.  I was so impressed I
bought a bucket of beer, and we had a good time.    

Ben pressed me to dance with a beautiful woman

before someone else did.  But I couldn’t.  I said I
was once in love with a woman with hands like his,
remembering her fingers rough in my mouth.  She
pulled a Johnny Paycheck, giving up six figures
as an oil exec for a job as a farrier.  She spent her
days driving the country roads in a worn-out F-150,
afraid of the interstates.  A rancher told me if
horseshoeing is an art, she’s Picasso.  But I had to give
her up to come back home.  And I haven’t danced since. 



Source: Warner Bros. Pictures

battered neon bar sign, Shawnee, Oklahoma, May 2016