In a musty old warehouse
lying Amboy low amid the tall swamp grass
alongside the Jersey Central tracks,
we stumble in darkness,
then finally find her.
Yes, she’s one of us,
with a grown-up daughter in rainy Vermont
and a day job, getting out the payroll.
We sit on hard wooden crates.
Our backs, hers too, begin to ache
#but soon, in orange spotlight
she becomes again
the rock ‘n roll chick that she is.
Her golden alto richens the mix,
rounds and ripens the harder sounds:
the two contrapuntal screaming guitars
the lead singer’s masculine growl.
We see her now through a purple fog,
arms swinging, hips rocking: wailing, blood
A thousand faces, gleaming with sweat and beer
look up, lock onto her.
We all are awash in it
forever, just as long as we can.
Worrell studied literature and philosophy at Union College. His poems have appeared in U.S. 1, Mad Poets Review, Wild River Review, and Fox Chase Review. He has performed poems at Chris’ Jazz Cafe, Cornelia Street Cafe and Cafe Improv.
