The Artist’s Hut Saturday Night Poem by B. V. Dahlen

A small room
Fishnet gathers
cobwebs to the ceiling.
Sound vibrates against ear drums
And rattles the coffee cups
standing empty
before us.
Hands beat the rhythm
on knees and table tops.
One bright light
cuts the void of darkness,
and illuminates
a drum, three guitars
and towering amplifiers.
Sweating faces scream their souls
into microphones.
I am there.
I feel the rhythm
My pulse pounds with the drum.
I listen and sway
and know now
why I've come.