On repeat
I hear your favorite song,
so much harmony
and the sad energy
of contemporary men
who have dogs
but no purpose.

It is elliptical
or epic,
beginning with the story
at the end.
Flourishes
and backbeats,
breaking the audience’s
necks
as if their heads
were brushed by the hand
of an unseen uncle.

Notes and syllables
are the question,
love, anger, and sex
the texture
that causes knees to flex
quickly
to catch waves and thrusts
from frontmen
and the girl
two rows over
with voluptuous
clouds dancing
above her head.

You spilled
your beer and so
many words
to illustrate
your casual affair
with vice.
It was cool.
You said,
“I liked his earlier work better.”