sacred and profane dances

It’s the kind of crowd where sexagenarians are shocked

they have to stand in line for the bathroom

while some chud rants loudly in the hallway

about it being 2026 so you can do what you want

and he’ll piss on anyone

(he’s probably down from Barrie);

but I buy another beer

and go in the “wrong aisle”

so the younger bucks next to me have to move -

even though it’s further away from my seat -

to make sure I don’t disturb the ancient couple next to me,

their judgement strong about the gin around my mouth

while the Southern condition runs deep,

a minimizing femininity.

Then I lean in because the mushrooms just mellowed

(and I’m sitting for this - hooray),

bracing a cherry-coloured boot on the chair in front of me

as I settle down

for some of the songs played down long river roads

and stretches of Big Bend highway,

tunes that sound like dominoes on a Saturday night