Motor Pool Midnight

We're almost free, almost real, almost home
Hold the note, hold the line, let the engines drone
Frank and Merlin sit on oil drums in the motor pool
Boots untied, futures loose around the edges

The war is behind them but still leaking through the cracks
A smell of gas in the garage, they borrowed a busted amp
A guitar with one working pickup, a snare that rattles like a nervous hubcap
They started a band because waiting was louder than fighting
Their chords are crooked but honest, their voices rough but rising
Every song is a question they can't quite ask
Every riff a memory they refuse to name

A sergeant walks by, says nothing, but taps his foot once
A quantum nod to tomorrow, and the privates grin
Because for once in two years, the world feels like it might open instead of close

We're almost free, almost real, almost home
Hold the note, hold the line, let the engines drone
We're almost free, almost real, almost home
Hold the note, hold the line, let the engines drone
We're almost free, almost real, almost home
Hold the note, hold the line, let the engines drone

Act I Scene xii- finally!