Tiny Change Rooms Poem by Bill Dureen

Entering; as roadies in tie-dyed t-shirts
Into thousands of tiny change rooms
With ineffectual slide bolt locks on questionably stained metal doors..
Ignoring profanity laden walls adorned with phone numbers of ex-girlfriends
'For a good time call (write ex's name here) '

That'll teach HER to dump HIM...

Exiting; as musicians in crushed velvet
Wide satin lapelled tuxedo jackets
Rescued from the Salvation Army Store..

Climbing; onto the minimalist six inch riser
Barely large enough to hold one person let alone four
With their guitars, keyboards, drums,
Impressively large, excessively loud amplifiers
Drowning out macho drunks
And their painted lady drunkettes
As they yell almost incoherently
'Play Free Bird! ! ! '
Or was that Stairway To Heaven? ?

WHY?
For the money?
NO!
For the idolatry?
NO!

For that moment of singular camaraderie
When their souls connect to each other and their instruments
In a twelve bar homage to Muddy, Wolf, and that Guy, Buddy
Four minds melding, oblivious to the smoky tumult,
Living in one perfect improvisational moment
That will never exist again, except in memory..

For the music..
That's what I'm talkin about...