I shouldn’t be surprised, by what house lights reveal.
By now the shows I’ve been to number near three hundred,
and probably that is understating it.
The venues have varried
from dive bar to stadium
from music hall to theater,
once there was a ski lodge,
oh and an old stone church.
But no matter the place, when the lights start to rise,
reality begins to settle in,and last night,
was no different, so really,
I’m not sure why I was surprised.
First of all, the floor is always horrifying,
it is sticky, and littered, there are shards of glass,
some girl dressed in flip- flops, with an anesthetic level of booze
has inevitably left with a terrible souvenir.
And the couple to the right, who looked so perfect for each other,
he is too tall, and she is just drunk, and somebody is obviously lying.
And the good dancer to you left, turns out he just got his hands on something
brought in from somebody’s older brother out on the west coast.
And the healing I was feeling in my heart,
the cure I thought was finding with each drop
of the bass drum, with each new chord on the keys,
turns out that too was just brought in for the night,
delivered not by doses, but by nostalgia.
And we can be honest, because given the opportunity,
I will continue to be disoriented by the harsh glow of the post midnight lighting.
I will arrive into the club in the dark, and dance my way through
the funk, and the ballads, keep my feet moving through the refrains and
revel in what can be hidden by a six piece and a lighting board.
And in the morning, under the real-time burn of the sun,
I will flip through the digital captures of the night before,
and remember what it was like to be fooled by the shadows.