Rock and Roll Stops the Traffic
We had the weekend to ourselves. Thank the in-laws. So we pushed the coffee table aside and pulled the futon mattress to the living room floor. We shut the blinds. Someone knocked, and we didn’t answer. We watched two X-Files. All this and Martin Luther King, a conversation punctuated in question marks, before 6 o’clock.
Dinner in town was on a balcony. A friend was seated behind me, and I got to tell her I love her. I was cold. The bands were beginning to tune up. The night lights were on. Unbuttoned sweaters, Autumn’s flags. People in droves were parted by an Ozark wailing train, night harmonica.
Then we visited friends in a their stone house, old with great door knobs, creaky floors. She served wine in a slim juice cup. Tibet was on the walls, in the rug, the blood. We looked through crates of vinyls. We played Springsteen, ran our fingers over the Beatles, talked Dylan Poetry.
We were beautiful, who we like ourselves to be. Some people bring the silver out in you, remind you the feet were made for gold, the mouth for music.
No politics, we render to Caesar only what is due. This is the time of life that Jesus healed the chopped ear, put his hands down swiftly on the one with the sword. What’s a prophet without an ear? Outside is America, says Bono. We listen. We want Africa.
Today you are thirty-three, husband. Today you follow Jesus like somebody just out of desert. But you don’t have to hang on any cross, though you still carry it and sometimes me. You wash me with WORD, right music. You make me want rattle and hum. We’ve become kin in Revolution.
Happy Birthday to my Lover, my Prophet, my Music Man.