Older than the music are the couples
who tonight will find fine Atlantic air
meets the places where they sleep,
where the cold air meets their quiet lungs.
Tomorrow the scene will be newer,
but we'll be a few hours older than tonight.
The corners of the porch define
our borders;
on Monday our Holiday Road
will take us home,
but tonight the Sound is sweet.
Montauk waits quietly across the water.
Tonight's the middle of the party,
for which Lucas has found a finger.
Call me because never again
will I be as available as I am now
to talk about imaginary magic seeds
called "sesame."
Call me and maybe we'll hit the street;
take the cat down to Winn's
for a comic book, and when we're home,
I'll tell you how to get to Houston,
Left on I-10 and go straight.
Hello Denver,
you might be glad to know
this is still your town to me
in so many ways.
Two years later,
you still find funny ways
to pop up -- in a night out,
in a back room.
I am happy to report
that two years later
a late-night robot
can make me smile.
Be wary of the funny hat
late at night on the streets of Brooklyn
when any amount of attention
is unwanted: our anonymity
is our best friend tonight;
it is different from hours ago
when all eyes were on you;
you were a star.
It is right to move from constellation
to bandit and back again,
our unknownness is our time
to do the little things: to move
from one place to another,
to play a game, to eat some chips.
Tomorrow we'll feel like
we've gotten away with something
if only tonight we get away with it.
