Archibald sat 4 yards from the stage, played
peek-a-boo with the whitened-faced front man
who had hidden behind a glistening tambourine.

This poem is not about the start,
but the end. Archibald hates to forget,
hates the memory-loss headache
post-honey wine, his last honey wine.
He would say goodbye because
it had provoked bubbling dreams
of petal tentacles in flying saucers.

Three years later, he would finally remember a night,
a night when he had nursed a single single-malt scotch,
a night when Stevie Nicks had winked at him, definitely him.
Perhaps she even smiled. And wouldn’t he love to love her.