Her dad’s cover band is killing Neil Young
and I’m trying to pretend that it’s ironic—
but I’m tipsy on club soda
and the way she laughed
when I told her the Aunt-Linda-looking lady
like he’s praying to the gods of metal.
I clap.
She laughs again—
and I feel it in my chest
Somewhere between "Harvest Moon"
under this neon forever.
my back is to the band,
Outside, the Florida heat thickens.
I have the desire to say aloud.
like it’s part of a personal weather system,
pulling storms into her orbit.