Madison

when i arrived, the elderly were huddled together
like stale sardines in an air-conditioned can.
i fished through my purse for the address
of the youth hostel... stood in line at the front desk
and waited for the catch

blue-eyed and green-gilled from five hours of interstate
and toll-road travel, still reeling from the stormy sea
spawned by the rainstorm that drenched the highway,
i threw my bags into 215 and set out to see
what was to be seen

Marti and John adorned the sidewalk in acoustic elegance,
torn jeans and tops on skinny bodies,
their guitar cases spread wide like open-handed children
for dollars and change;
they sang of love and loss,
lyrics of life-experience from their lips:
"... we never took more than we could eat,
there was lots left on the rack,
and we all swore if we ever got rich,
we'd pay the mini-mart back..."

a few blocks south of State street,
the silver waters of lake Mendota shimmered orange and gold
in the waning sunlight.
Hypnotic Clambake was onstage at the Union:
an eclectic crew of guitar, drums, keyboard, violin, and accordian
paired with stinging sarcastic lyrics about politics
and smoking cigars...
my eyes found a man with a bedroll and long, greasy hair;
he scoured the ground for half-burned cigarettes to feed
his addiction

as i sat on the concrete wall, immersed in the music and ambiance,
i found myself:

a once-lost rustic country girl
that rode to Madison on an iron horse
in search of herself...
in pursuit of affection:
attention captured by the city's lights
and cryptic darkness.