your soul in its true form
and then
Later
Row 8 seats 9 and 10
Behind a
Wide navy blue column
Sharp angle at the stage
But it’s a radio show
So you tell me it doesn’t
Matter you didn’t tell me
To go for the balcony
At the Ryman, the
Confederate balcony no
Longer, the host notes too,
He notes
Even after the family,
Loose-woven
Delicate listeners,
Who griped
Groused
Bemoaned
  Later
in the newsletter about that
dreadful
opening monologue “fuck”
we didn’t hear because we
dawdled when we dodged
the whole queue
around the block
reassured one another
(a cocktail’s no place to keep
your Kentucky bourbon)
walking nowhere and then
again because of the stained
glass and then again because
of my weird personal timezone,
already left and behind
them left their open
seats which by
Swing Low
Sweet
Chariot
we’d found