Apr 28
1 min read
Post-Prime, a poem
A plastic rat tacked to the wall,
crystals hanging from the door hinge.
People stepping outside in lawful smoking compliance.
Jaded bartenders ignoring your drink request.
The aftermath of a great show.
Musicians past their prime but still magical.
Low ceilings and laughter and Halloween lights.
Done by 9:30, Metamucil time.
Jamming,
playing now with four guitars
when one
Rick Nielson
previously sufficed.
