Wrigleyville

The melting pot is
Simmering here in Wrigleyville
Fans half-drunk from
Old Style and heat stroke on the
Outfield bleachers bobbing up
Against each other like
Faint-hearted messages in green
Sea glass now swathed
In Cubby blue.

The parking lot is crawling
An easy out for twenty bucks
Proclaims the looming guardian
Dreadlocked and baleful
We consider briefly then
Pay the toll as a giant
Rat as big as your arm
Stalks languid past the van.

Inside the bar the band is
Gathering sound checking with
Equal parts anxiety and irony
Two divas wheel on pointed heels.
One her feral mane tossed wild in
The colored lights. The other
Fairly bursting from her red brassiere
Flashing a tambourine as if
To summon the very spirits
Of rock and soul.

The short dark-haired leader
Of the band steps forward
Native shirt beads swinging
A furious welter of notes streaming
From his cheap imported guitar
An artful posture assuring us
That his sound comes from
Sweat and practice alone.

The drummer flails majestically
A drowning man taking time to
Fillet his catch on the way down
While the limping dude with the
Blue guitar makes circles around the
Mohawked bass player
Ramrod-straight
Impassive
Enjoying the spotlight afforded
By his preternatural calm.

This sea of joy and ego
Swelling as the lights
Pulse and dim
We stand and shake with
All the passersby
As the El goes over
The music under
The sun and the beer
And the women
Oh the women…

And I realize
I cannot remember
The reason I was never
Supposed to be out here
Floating in this ocean of
Rhythm sound and light
Alive and beautiful.