Weeping At Rock Shows
I’ve done it.
I have allowed myself
to weep at rock shows.
Usually, I’m alone,
anonymous in a crowd,
no social obligations,
no company to keep,
and I am moved
by the music.
There’s an upswell
that begins in the chest
and travels up through
the throat, the eyes
water–enough, perhaps,
that a hand is required
to wipe away the wet,
not out of embarrassment
(no one sees me, no one notices)
but so that I can see the band.
A recent development,
I didn’t do this in my teens,
in my twenties, or thirties even.
Only now, squarely middle aged,
while I still love to “rock,” as they say,
do I find myself at shows alone,
only now am I touched by melody,
by certain moves of virtuosity,
by the emotional crescendo
of an artist I love,
and even if the music is sad,
I am not sad, but joyful.
I don’t know what it means
and I’m not worried.
It would not be a stretch
to say that I have learned
to listen, to breathe in my medium
more deeply than ever I could before,
to disappear in a crowd and
become part of something whole,
that finally, I am grateful and glad
to be weeping at rock shows.
michael jarmer 