An early show, when the room is still filled with sunlight

I scribble in my notebook: I want the man in the Rush t-shirt
to come inside; to join our crowded interlude. You write back:

A man who truly appreciates classic rock should experience
this: dotting your i’s with bubble hearts although I can’t say why.

He peers through the window, curious or confused by these
musical notes, until his wife tugs his sleeve and pulls him away

and we both smile, rocking slightly on the balls of our feet
standing so close to the band that I’m tempted to reach and slap

a shoulder with a hearty ‘Good job!’ or kiss a forehead to feel
body heat and sweat, or a hand on the keyboard for vibrations.

Do you think we hear music better in daylight?: I consider
comparing it to conversations when I’m not wearing glasses

how blurred faces create muffled voices, or that we don’t listen
as intently when eye-to-eye because we’re more likely to feel

our surroundings. In the dark, you can pretend you’re alone:
you sketch a tiny sun before handing the book back

suddenly worried we’ve become too sentimental and decide
to blame the music, say you were carried away, if pressed

and the only thing I can think to do is hold your hand, lacing
fingers in warm light, when we both thought that time had long past.