The main thing I remember is

the smoke in my hair,

in my clothes,

hanging things out on the porch to air,

a long and luscious bath,

the sweaty jeans, the

filthy set list, torn where I

taped it to the stage and

pulled it off at the end of the night.

My guitar sitting by the kitchen door,

carried in the house to be safe

but no further,

the amp still out in the car.

Sleeping late (or trying to),

work the next day an unreal place,

no words that can explain that other world

where music lives.

by Cher Bibler