Artists perform in a tension of control and release.
Performances are something put to the crowd
then wished back.
Reviews are opinions well-dressed for a night out
with years of knowing or some just fans.
The amphitheatre was not packed but personal. The lawn
had picnics. The sun had set and Mr. Prine
was singing the songs with his sad brio.
One never knew exactly, to take him at his word or think him ironic
though in the end, with an artist such as Mr. Prine
you want the heartache.
She sat alone in front of me, off to the side, and I sat alone
behind her, able to see the edge of her face.
Mr. Prine sang and strummed his guitar.
She wept and clapped softly, filled and thrilled
by Mr. Prine's offhand pathos. That is it:
He takes you into the sweet cut of his songs
rhyming and chiming like symbols of gongs.
Magnificently we went home.