It was getting so late, but the band pressed on.
I watched from a sidelined kiosk table as the party's hardiest guests
returned to the dance floor, history draped on their soft shoulders.
I couldn't know what brought them here, by what slim margins they passed
through the eyes of needles and hurricanes to shuffle, sweetly innocent,
to the pomp and brass of "Brick House." It didn't matter how many times they'd heard it.
Their arms looped loosely around the other, their steps casual and unhurried,
as if they had nothing left to prove, love - finally - a fact of nature, like the rain
pelting the tent roof, like the moon waiting beyond the clouds, like the lawn
still greening after all these years.