Coke-can red and center stage,
the twelve-string electric guitar shined,
impatient for its player to take the stage.
Smoke eddied incense-like around the neon Pabst signs,
a cloudiness smoothing the harsh light,
making us all a little dreamier.
By the time Robert Randolph sat down at his guitar,
we were already floating on the surface of the hum,
that sound of our waiting flooding the night air.
His song roared toward us, notes becoming an ocean,
their melody in swells and currents, drawing us
higher, lifting us toward the night sky's kingdom of stars.
And though the popcorn and beer left no kind of absolution
the music played a gracious host, calling us all to communion.