The poem I wrote called "Dancer" was about an old Cedar Chopper Beer Hall that I went to when I was a student at Texas in the late 50s and early 60s. I rarely took a date because the people who went there were a different breed and you had to know how to behave. I didn't trust any of the guys I knew to act well so I'd go alone and people watch -- listen to the music and drink a beer or two.
 
Here is a link that will tell you a little about the Cedar Choppers in case you don't know about them. I suppose million dollar homes and HEBs have run them off but, at that time, they were a strong people with a culture all their own.

Friday evening - Winter -1963.

 Outside of Austin -

My Healey takes the curve -

Smoothly - Up the long hill -Down -

Almost touching the waters of Lake Travis -

Up again - shifting into second gear -

The road cuts through the granite of the Texas Hill County.

 I see the distant sign -

“JBs Beer Hall and Café”

 The full moon spills her yellow light across the water  -

The music of the jukebox -Lingers -Calling.

 I turn into the parking lot -

Tires on gravel – crunching – Singing of the rural life I love --

Speaking of the asphalt–crowded city life I’d left behind.

 Pausing for a moment –

Looking through the windshield of my car –

I see the now familiar scene that only months ago was foreign –

Mystery.

 Old building --Faded paint --

Men in jeans and boots  --Ford and Chevy pickups --

Couples, babies in their arms --

 Old folks - smiling - walking slowly --

Hand-in-hand – reminiscing.

 I enter –Alone --Feeling out of place.

 And yet, drawn am I each Friday night -

To what?

 I cannot stay away ---I  don’t know why.

 The band arrives and fills the air with country songs --

German polkas --Grand Ole Opery waltzes --Patsy Cline.

 I buy a beer and sit --Alone -- Quiet --

Watching the dancers moving slowly to the music.

 Lovers, clinging, eyes closed --

Grandmothers --

Arms around little girls --

Whirling round and round.

 Cowboys standing at the bar -- 

Smoking Lucky Strikes --

Shy --Awkward --

Looking at the women as they enter.

  Lost in thought, I do not see the man.

I only feel his hand upon my arm --

A stirring in my soul – A gentle call.

 Our eyes meet --

I quickly look away.

 Tall --Lean --Blonde --

Stoic. Energy focused.  

 “Come dance,” he says.

 His hand extends to mine -- I hesitate.

 He smiles as though he knows my fear.

 “Come dance.”

 With no more thought I place my hand in his --

And feel his arm around my waist.

 Holding tightly to each other --

The music leads us --

No words and yet I sensed so much --

And felt the safety of his arms.

 He smelled like country air --

Not soap or men’s cologne --

But more like tough guys --

Cowboys --Tobacco in a tin.

  And later when we talked - he spoke of --

Fishing at Buchanan -- And deer he’d shot --

And books he’d read on Travis and on Crockett –

And Hereford cattle waiting to be sold.

 I didn’t understand this man --

So different from the men I knew –

The men who spoke of Wall Street and Thoreau.

 Yet even then I knew that I would laugh with him --

and cry for him --

and love him as I’d never loved before.

 From that night on for many years --

There was no other.

 And 38 years hence, I see his face and feel his touch --

As though it were today.

 And when he died, I grieved for him --

And longed for him –

And watched each night believing he’d return.

 I’d hear a car --Or in the distance see a man --

And I’d remember how he smelled and how he laughed --

And how he stood so many times between the world and me --

So willing to defend me --

To dance with me --To be my love.

 And only after many years did I rejoice for even one day spent with him --

And realized  --

That one day spent with him --

Was worth the pain of losing him a thousand times.

 How often in each life do our hearts open so?

 Once?

 Twice?