Making Love With Music
At Shag Phelps' birthday bash,
in a small dark bedroom
on the far end of Alan's trailer,
we found ourselves laughing and naked,
doing the dirty dance to a drum solo,
and strains of electric mystic Iron Butterfly
Flashes of strobe and heady weed
streamed through a carelessly ajar door.
The earth swirled and tilted
when I arched backward,
just to hear you swear as my hair
tickled the bare tops of your thighs.
'Oh won't you come with me...'
Thirty years later, a soft country ballad
is mingled with snoring before
the first verse leads to pause.
In still darkness I walk
through this big house alone,
while ghosts taunt from shadows.
'and walk this land…'
I put the album carefully in place,
turn the volume to an unfamiliar low,
and close my eyes to drink the music.
If I lean way back in a younger woman's arch,
I can almost feel the hair that is no longer there
tickle the skin of my bare and lonely waist.
'Please take my hand…'