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Personal Note:

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Poem

The anticipation mounts,
Marty Robbins in the air.
No cement, no asphalt,
there's only dirt, it's everywhere.

The trucks are pulling in,
their trailers tucked in tight.
They come ready to race,
it's gonna be exciting tonight.

Every driver at the wheel,
is here to state his case.
The win is all that counts,
no one cheers second place.

The flagman at his altar,
his flags run the show.
You don't like what he says,
in the pits, you'll go.

The fans know the drivers.
They are who they come to see.
Bob, Fletcher, James, Bud,
Charlie, Billy, Leon, and Curley.

The announcer starts his spiel,
It's finally getting close.
Can hear the engines running,
noise to some, but poetry to most.

Cars in parade on the backstretch,
the green flag in Weyman's hand.
The engines roar to life,
dirt is flying, every fan stands.

The winner takes his victory lap.
Checkered flag waves from his car.
It's what every racer lives for,
this driver is this weeks star.

The other racers leave their mounts,
from each one can be heard.
Next time, will get them next week,
always says, second and third.

But wait, there is no next week,
there's nothing on this ground.
The track has suddenly closed,
race cars nowhere to be found.

The announcer's mic is dead,
The flags no longer wave.
The stands bare, the pits empty.
Marty Robbins no longer plays.

Standing on this sacred backstretch,
many, many years ahead.
It's eerily quiet and still outside,
But ...... not in my head.

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