By the time we arrived that night in Gonzales,
there were already hundreds of other early-arrivers
for Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July Picnic
set to begin in the morning,
and the Roadtoad and I were well into
our own stock of Lone Star and Jack Daniel’s.
Laughter, whoops and car radios sounded in the Texas night
from every corner of the open field that was the camping area,
and we opted to start mingling – pitching camp could wait.
Such a cordial crowd, all those strangers happy
to pass a bottle or reefer our way,
each stoked about the dawning weekend of music and fun.
Further down in the rounds, we were well-received and well-lit
when we made the acquaintance of some good ol’ boys from Georgia,,
who proudly shared with us their Mason jars of back-home shine.
They got a kick out of the kick it gave us,
the fourth or fifth good swig proving to be
a surprise nightcap for me, at least,
and I had just enough life left
to retrieve my sleeping bag and spread it out
upon the hard, dark ground.
It was a dead sleep I fell into,
and would have lasted until the coming heat woke me,
were it not for an early-morning jolt of fire and pain to my shoulder
that rousted me with a yelp of terror and subsequent confusion
as my heart raced, my head ached,
and my arm throbbed while going numb.
Jumping to my feet to confront my attacker,
my working hand felt no bullet hole or knife wound,
while my fuzzy, wincing eyes saw no truck or sidewinder
leaving me in their tracks.
But once I was able to focus on smaller details,
I noticed that the spot where I had made my bed
was where THEIR bed had been first,
and one of those huge, irate South Texas red ants
had given me a dose of what they’re famous for.
It took two or three swift steps to clear their sprawling camp
and mad, furious activity,
but too late…another stung my hip on the opposite side.
I was awake to cuss loudly for that one,
and soon my right leg joined my left arm in torturous paralysis,
no muscle control, but nerves drawn in agony.
Nothing else to do but try to walk it off,
And I’m sure that my dragging a dead leg and flopping a dead arm
made me resemble Quasimodo limping off to sanctuary.
Sure enough, some guy leaning on his pickup exclaimed,
“Damn! You look like you need a cold beer!”
and gave me one.
Whew.
Now where were those Georgia boys?
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Poemission
Texas Alarm Clock
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