There was this mean Irish taproom
on 12th Street. During the day
there were people going in
But at night the place seemed
I'd drunk my money and was pretty far
gone when I walked by. The door
was open and a band was playing
on a tiny stage in back:
four young college guys
banging out a twelve bar blues.
I walked in. The walls
were green. There was nobody there
but the band and the bartender.
I climbed on stage, took out
my harmonica, and began to blow.
It felt good being part of something.
The guitar player backed off
and let me take a solo. I played
12 bars and was just warming up
so I took another 12. I felt a hand
on my shoulder. It was the guitarist.
"That's it," he said, "you're done."
I climbed down off the stage
and looked hopefully at the bartender
for a free round. He shook his head,
no. I walked out, the music
still hammering at my back,
in search of a new tribe.