Day Eighteen: ‘Andy, You’re A Star (The Kid Goes To The Festival)’

An empty stage, then came the treacherous rain.
Muddy girl in headband, waterfall red,
buzzes to a buddy re: the lack
of “Sex on Fire.” The washed-out kings had fled
west ahead of Sasquatch. Eyes drift back
to the now soaked amps, electronic ruination.
The message comes: new tour bus in back
but be cool, wait for word. An Austin band.
Arrive quick. Let the beer catch up. Meet Jim
and the driver (Max?), the rest one at a time.
Apatow on TV, pot burned in apples,
odd talk of Lasik. Redhead and me watch
tall eggman torch a bottle rocket outside
in rain as time itself goes inside out.