Ain't That America

It is very rare that I ever go out to see live music. This venue happens to be just down the road, and in truth I can hear the music at the house if the windows are open. But a friend knew someone in the band and so we met up, drinking hard cider and eating ice cream at some picnic tables while the band played rock and roll covers and the evening set in.

I could probably write at least ten pages expanding on the microcosm of small town storylines compressed into this three hour experience. It would be in turns uplifting and tragic, including topics such as the difficult transition from youth to adulthood, dreams both realized and deferred,  gentrification and economic disparity, the impact of suicide and incarceration on family and friends, and, of course, friendship. 

Which is probably why I don't go out more. It can be exhausting noticing so many things and thinking about them perhaps a bit too much. I think one reason I appreciate poetry is because of the way it can compress so much understanding into a tight space.

By one of those strange coincidences, I happened to post a photo of this very same place exactly two years ago.

Pink Houses