I walked past Gene Simmons, just yards away,
with him in full makeup. It was the band,
actually, leaning over the railing,
watching the stage, murmuring back and forth
about nothing that concerned me. I glanced
over because the makeup was so fab,
but really, what stuck in my mind wasn’t
KISS, but Focus, swimming in blazing lights,
fog machines spiraling colors upward,
voice and guitar punching notes like rivets.
On the highway, after, we debated
the singing, and I insisted (wrongly)
that there were four voices in that solo.
The black of the sky, gray of the asphalt,
stuttering of the lane lines. The silence
outside the car as huge as the crowd’s roar
minutes before, while inside, all our shouts,
giggles, and yawns echoed as if muted.