Aubade [2]

for Bill and Jeff and Jon

Friends, in our last-night technicolor dream, we danced real good.
Lord only knows the slick trick shake and bake
our asses threw around.
Now in the quaint dim of morning wake-up we stood
bright-lied and bushy-failed to the all too fake shake
of near middle age found,

our youth split, like our students seconds after the bell’s peel mutes.
Each zero hour we gather caffeined and nicotined and Brylcreem’d,
readying our dog and pony shows.
And, from tiny speakers sparks the halting urges of Toots
or brooding crooners or forgotten punks, some ripped tracks from vinyl seem
to surely flow.

God forbid, if ever public gone, whether digitized and posted
or our own private red curtain drops on a crickety spotlit stage,
this dance we share,
and fear and love, is shocking seen, never our names will be toasted
high with sweet shot drink, but red-faced our women would rage.
Thankfully, they continue to care.