by Mat Gould
has just pulled up in a small mid-sized car
a young couple, they might be hipsters
she is wearing rubber soled rain boots and carrying a plastic tool box
he needs help with the monitors and speakers
they leave to come back later
she sings softly avant- garde of passing by and passing on and something about despair
he strums a broken guitar, hums staringly solemn toward the bar or the aloof barista
and pushes buttons on the keyboard that is otherwise without a pilot
set off to the side
behind them, a few cords leading to the noise
there are empty chairs and not so many others in the standing room either
they play on
sheepishly happy without applause
a pillar of static in between songs-