On satellite radio
the Stones play
you can’t always get
what you want—
Keith’s guitar and the
French horn sound like
a blessing
an epitaph
a fortune
a card reading that’s
always accurate.
A bartender with
silver hair
hey buddy
puts a smooth
gin and tonic in my hand,
a glacier in a glass,
sweet pine rising,
water clinging like sweat.
A clock and calendar says
it’s 10:22, July 9, 1989—
Close enough, it’s showtime.
Four stick clicks through
thick air, and we’re off,
waves of sound, chasing
night into early morning.
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