He had a pit viper
In each hand
And several at his feet.
The sound of nervous shakers
Filled the blackness
Around the spitting campfire.
He danced with the snakes
While Bobo did a jig
On the fiddle.
The corn liquor was passed around
In circles
Peaches resting orange
In the bottom of the mason jar.
The moonshine did it’s job
Which isn’t to say
That those of us
Less familiar with the
Disposition of wild rattlesnakes
Were not hesitant
With the shenanigans
Of Rattlesnake Joe King.
The snakes
Moved slowly in the sand
At his feet
While he danced.
I wasn’t as concerned
About the snakes
That he grasped around
The throat
Murmuring
God’s prophetic ramblings.
If they bit him...
It wasn’t me...
I kept my eyes
On those fuckers in the sand.
The ones that could
Slither over
Twenty feet
In just a few seconds
Fire or not
And strike out at you
Hitting several vital spots
Before you had time
To swing even one hand.
I’ve seen rattlesnake bites.
Your skin dies and falls off
All over your body
And the sores bleed
For a week or more.
It ain’t pretty
And it’s painful.
Joe King
Wrapped up his sermon
Putting the snakes
Back into black cloth sacks.
He passed around
An old wicker basket
Asking for donations
As he was doing God’s work.
There wasn’t one
Un-sinner
Among us.
He was taking a chance
With the snakes.
He was taking a bigger chance
With us.
We all put money
In the basket.
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