In a smoke-filled shoe box of a basement room on Jones Street.
Spot lights at one end aimed at some long-haired guitar picking
boys who, with studied abandon and purposeful carelessness,
perhaps didn’t shower?
And then, a small blond woman in polkadots with a voice
from far below us where we sit in the third row back next to
some strangers from Sioux Falls. Blues throbbing,
is this a reincarnated Janis Joplin?
And then, a hatted dandy from the streets of Chicago
winds his way past crammed tables to the front of the stage
dancing alone: our cue to get down. Some of us do.
Anyway, the night is young.
And then, a few follow him. The liquor still has its time to
work on us when a skinny farmer in blue jeans and a baseball
cap with an agricultural association’s name on it,
he pushes his glasses up?
And then, he takes the floor, age fifty eight. I want to dance,
my man doesn’t. We talk with the strangers, begin to notice
how loud it is and the smoke makes us stink,
isn’t it about time?
And then, we leave. It’s getting late, we’re not exhibitionists,
we have nothing to prove. Just rock with the music,
watch people and drink bad Scotch. Windows down, the fresh
air hits us awake, and off with the moon into the night.