Ft. Worth, TX 9/21
The floor. The ring. The stage. The street.
The floor.
Songs of love set the old-timers’ hats bobbin’ at the borders of the floor. Around the swirling girls and broad arms and flashing neon signs for beer brands. They listen to the shuffle of boots on the glistening boards. A whisper dance of courtship. Old love. Old ways. That polka step speaks in an immigrant tongue. Long gone from home.
The ring.
Eight seconds is all it takes to be a king. In the middle of the muck and sand and stands. Eight seconds for a skinny kid from Venezuela that weighs all of a hundred pounds. Spun and bucked for fun, fame, and a fistful of bills.
He’s in the thick of it now. Where the suede boots stamp and drink and holler. Where the hooves kick up that slight-framed rider. His body rising to the thick rhythm of the flanks. Then down face first, digging in the dirt. Shoulders twisted. Arms buckled. And another breakage for the books. The beer-soaked crowd in its muddy thought wonder if he’ll ever ride again. Under the strip lights burning high above the ceiling fans.
The stage.
The whole town is out, from the infirm to the young. They’ve come to shake and roll to the rhythm of the band. Red skirts spin and denim shifts as the stage bleeds its sound. A sea of faces sways to the drum and lick and song. Those creased caps know. Those ticket holders on the tables and in the stalls know. This is how to live. This is how to let go of what’s beyond the walls of tonight.
The street.
It’s full night now. He sits beside the creek and smells the sweet resin cloud of weed. It billows from the college boys in sport polos, tennis shoes, and Stetsons. He sits beside the creek with his bundle. In his leathered skin. He sits behind bright black eyes that shine with the gleam of polished marbles set in the skin. The bachelorette parties, new buckles, neon, and sweaty bodies glisten in them. From sundown through the cacophony of night, he cranes his eyes beside the creek. Father time. Watching all that changes and all that does not.