Dirt Tracks (Saturday Nights) Poem by Weldon Davis

Every day
Is Saturday in my mind
And
The stands are filling
The lights are on
Cold beer being poured
Cheap hot dogs and nachos
Whiskey flasks tucked in
Coat pockets

Guys find their seats
And scan the crowd
Hope'n for a glance
From a pretty girl
They know
They all come
To race night
At the dirt track

Horsepower, caked mud,
Sweat, screams, high octane,
Gasoline

It isn't the money
On the line
It's the pride
Of crossing the finish line first
Whether it's an 8 year old
In a beat up Bonneville
In the young guns class
Hope'n to be the next
Joey Lagano or Denny Hamlin
-Or-
A 43 year old plumber
Looking for glory as he scrambles
For track position in a 67' Camero

The dust flies non-stop
As the announcer yells at the top of his lungs
'LETS GO RACING'
To the roar of the crowd

For the world of outlaws, modifieds,
And the super late models
Going full throttle
In a bottle neck turn
Ready to go buck wild and
Trade some paint
Yeah...

It all happens every day
In my mind
And on Saturday nights
At the dirt tracks
Across America