Drink tall beer and spill it
dripping from your chin, shining
on polyester -
and dump sugar into the coffee. Glare
on the window is band-light,
and notes kicked up from the dirt street
are the gold tuba's
brontosaurian reach. Three fat old guys
making music, those
unremarkable shades of grey
who'd been hiding under their skins,
are planes of blue shale now,
ageless with fossils. Irony
is bad taste.
Like magic bullets
for a disease that used to be terminal,
balls of sun
hail from the accordion, a purity post
post-modern, plain
beyond. Where! Where have they gone,
our tedium and pain. The dumb drums
frame the saving.
.
.
