the house lights lit our injuries for crowds of plastic cups
that clapped beneath bartenders' sleepy brooms,
and boom, boom boom, boom,
went amps and cases down the stairs into the parking lot out back,
a burst of moon, a blast of air, an understanding somewhere
between the turning signal clicks,
the shiny food we found with gasoline,
the daily prayers of set-lists, tender jokes about
retards and crashes and queers,
I lost the chiming ring
of keys to everything
safe, and safely locked away back home.