A cigar, short and fat, rested
Between two of his rough fingers
Like a bundle of drift wood
When he pulled me aside to listen
To the heavy thud of the bass drum
parading out of black speakers.

He seemed to bathe in the music,
In that wall of sound that encircled
Us, as another spiraling cloud
Of dark gray smoke exited
His mouth like rings of smoke
From the summit of a dormant
Volcano.

I imagined him, years before,
Driving a metallic relic with wheels
The color of cold, steel,
His hair, cut short;
And glasses, thin still, resting
On the narrow bridge of his nose,
A black; and blocky
Eight track blaring out a plea
From Lennon for people to Imagine,
And Hendrix, I see that enigmatic gypsy,
Distorting sound with a left handed
Guitar.

I hear the bass drum fade now from
Our ears, retreating again into
Black speakers and I feel the
Walls lighten around us, leaving my
Father, a white stone, blowing in the wind.