I can just imagine lining up here
for tickets to the Beatles at Shea Stadium in 1965.
Or a concert to the Rolling Stones in their prime.
Or standing out on an LA sidewalk
to get into the Troubadour to see the Byrds.
But no, this is some tuneless diva
that my girlfriend wants to see.
It's here and now
not some glorious sixties past.
The music's more glamorous
but much less vital.
She tells me this singer
puts on a great act.
But what about those musicians
who really weren't acting.
What about Dylan in the Village?
Miles Davis, anywhere?
I'd press those tickets to my heart
not hold them at arm's length
like they give off a rotting smell.
We take turns in this endless queue
but our dreams we never could
swap in and out of.
I'm a vacuum tube
in a giant amp
blown by Hendrix at Monterey.
She's the glitter on tight trousers
of the troupe of dancing boys.
No Joplin on the bill tonight.
No Zappa. No Cream.
It's strictly MTV with less ads,
She returns, proclaims.
"The line hasn't even moved."
But it's been to see Elvis,
Led Zeppelin, Otis Redding,
and it just got back.
I merely reply, "Maybe it's sold out,"
like I don't know that already.