We tried to walk barefoot
into a blizzard, but the security guard
stopped us: an aged elf,
dressed in a lime-green, three-piece
polyester suit that undulated
beneath the fluorescent lights
of the Dane County Colosseum.
​
The acid had already peaked,
but all of us were still tripping:
thousands of freaks in sweaty tie-dyed
shirts, swirling and hugging, waving
our arms like trees in a windstorm.
​
You and I met at the concert,
jogged in place to “Bertha”,
and decided to stroll outdoors
for a breath of ice-cold air.
​
“I can’t let you out,” the guard said.
“It’s against the rules.”
​
The concept of rules at a Dead show
struck us as funny, so we laughed
for what felt like a long time.
​
You asked “Why?”
and the guard looked dejected,
like he really wanted to let us
play barefoot in snowdrifts,
but would face harsh punishment if he did.
​
“I just can’t,” he replied.
“Besides, you don’t have any shoes on,
and, well, it’s snowing.”
​
I gazed down at your feet,
pale and knobby with bulging red veins,
and laughed harder, while the guard
waited patiently for me to stop.
​
Finally, I met his eyes.
A tiny bee sticker made from cloth
was affixed to the lapel of his green suit.
The bee was smiling.

“I like that,” I said. “It’s cute.”
“I’m glad,” he replied.
“Do you want one?”

Reaching into a pocket, he extracted
an entire roll of cloth bugs—
butterflies, caterpillars, dragonflies,
every insect imaginable, marching in circles
around the circumference,

and I said, “Yes, please,”
as I selected a ladybug for my shirt.

He disarmed us without firing
a single shot, so we had no choice
but to wander back into the auditorium,
where “Bertha” was still playing.

We hadn’t missed a note.