Beerful and joyful, swaying to live music, dizzy and dimpled.
I open my eyes, and I where’s-waldo you on the same side of a small basement stage.
I’ve seen you before, but only ever as a patron, never as a companion.
Do you wanna be friends?
Do you wanna dance with me and sing with me and remember that, just because you do this vocationally, doesn’t mean you can’t also do it professionally, confessionally, like me, for free.
Ha! Who am I to doubt! Your authenticity was never in jeapordy. You’re a genuine woman, and one who appreciates Neil Young enough to play him, and – let me tell you – that really get’s me going…
So I put my arm around you and say your name, and your dimples are bigger than mine, and I know it’s all gonna be fine, and we swayed together, and you offered your name, and we talked, but what we said didn’t matter, cause I got to look into your eyes and you into mine, and I saw into that mutual moment we both came from.
I stripped myself of my own perverted perceptions of celebrity, and got to talk to you, lady; and that’s special, it’s exceptional, cause while characters are ubiquitous and heroic, authors are elusive and human; those are the people who I’m interested in.
Now I’m laughing, and the music is bathing us, and I wish I would’ve stayed longer, because while your impression has long since been imparted, I’d need time to reciprocate. Being bashful, instead I departed, back to my sister, back to our crowd, back to being dizzy and dimpled. You smiled.
A brief moment shared, and I won’t linger; there’s plenty to do, and see, but that won’t stop me from writing down the memory, or from loving you, lady; and I know you don’t know me, but I dig what you’ve shown me.
You’ll see me again.