Lay Me Down in Sheets of Linen

On a chunk of gold confetti
that you push with pointed toe,
you glide around the lit-up, emptied
stadium, the songs you know
only shapes your mouth is making:
leftovers, as you are, too.
Cashed for a sixer, cast-off, broken,
what’s the band to do with you
when the wives join up in Cleveland?
Pack you in that lamb’s fur coat.
Dump you in a suburb, leave you,
Quaaludes slipping down your throat.
To love the music like a groupie—
we all want to lick that edge.
Be seen, on stage, be fucked, be trumped.
Be almost with them, almost dead.