homage

All La Glory

These guys never plug in before midnight

keeping unholy hours, playing without

a break until someone notices the

tanged rim of the sun through the mist rising

from Overlook Mountain, washes of chords

from the Sacred Harp cascade down rounded

ancient shoulders, blue runoff in rills, brooks,

streams, a river returning to the source

Eternal nightly gig, a trio now,

smoking, swapping japes as they unpack trunks

of old harmonies, flat and creased after

all these years, the long wait for a rhythm

section finally over, The Weight from

the top now, count off those four flat bass drum

thumps, smoking, swapping verses, time to kill

before the night winds wail and the others

stroll in, short trip back to the big pink house.