Saturday Night in Batesville

You must arrive early at the old country store, 

parking lot’s small. Find a seat, a bite to eat, 

glass of wine, check the time then look around 

for Bobby Midnight and his band. Tables are full, 

people standing, yak-yaking crowds the space,

baby peers from pack on back, one mama runs 

to fetch her child, senior fans refill their drinks, 

and friends hail friends with rowdy hugs.  

One, then two, all six show up, beat up cases 

held in hand, hats buoyant on thin-haired heads. 

They shuffle on stage, open up bags, pull out 

possibilities: three guitars quiver, trumpet and sax 

glitter, stacked set of drums sits. These man-boys 

lean in to get the tuning right. The crowd booms 

then quiets as if testing for song.  Oh, there’s going 

to be some music on this warm spring night.

Funky tunes fly, fill the room, seep out windows 

step out doors.  Dancing couples, women clusters, 

dad with a daughter all pack the floor of that 

overhauled space. One man and a woman are fluid 

in leather bottomed shoes, possessed.  They swoon, 

sweat, press for more Billy Joel’s rock and roll. 

The local birdman holds a gallon pickle jar, 

trolls the room crying: gratuities for the band.  

Riding home, the man and woman still are dancing

in the moonlight.  And there it is -- bright bulging 

white shines their faces, lights up hay fields, 

rolls over foothills, crowns the Blue Ridge. 

© Marti Snell, 2017

Dance at a Country Inn
by Rafael Benjumea
Carmen Thyssen Museum, Malaga, Spain
from Wikimedia Commons