Hair

Nobody dreamed of being the rhythm guitarist

in an 80s rock band, even more pitiable

than the bass player, strumming forgettable quarter

notes and never getting to wear the cool hat. Even

the drummer got to take a solo at least once a show.

He’d douse his set with lighter fluid and try

not to throw up from the comped beer while

the rhythm guitarist kept time. And we don’t even

need to describe the shredded jeans, grandmother’s

makeup, the sleeve of tattoos worn by the lead

guitarist as he ran scales with his tongue out.

The singer was the closest thing to a poet we’d found;

he knew the biggest worries fit in 4/4 time

and all rhymed with love.