Rabbit Hole

Down from the tawny

mountain, ambling,

as a January afternoon

unrolls toward the black

bricked fireplace where you

will stack logs extracted

from fresh-cut summer

piles, and perhaps discover

the difference between

how a man makes a fire

and how a woman

makes one.  Burgundy

velvet detour, couch

pillows haphazard,

swallow you into the

ceiling patched one

hundred times.  Books

stacked, encyclopedias,

brown and gold backdrop,

a grandfather’s collection

and the new amp tag

hangs over a rainbow

of pastel pedals – reverb,

wah-wah, compression,

orderly perfection

of sweet disarray

to the boot stomp

and the dust cloud

rising, a puff for every

beat.  Mad music upsurge

from the red rug island,

a drummer’s first touch,

punk rock, homemade,

notes inlay in oil paints

on the sequined walls

of this Saturday rabbit

hole, magic, and glad

to follow Alice, one

more song before

we ramble on home.

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