under hot lights and sweating.
There, in the midst of Zeppelin blues and the crowd,
the ageless anticipation, the complicated thought of:
Screams from bodies trembling, hear those
soft six string moans,
microphone inhales and stifled words,
fevered hands grasping air
harmonica in crescendo
until the volume is unbearable, consumed.
We are so far; I know nothing of him.
We are so close; I see him there
leaning darkly beside the stairs.
[written when i was 20. revised here]