Applause or the lack of it
drives him further into the corner,
sinks him deeper into the chair,
the cushion springs
sing eternal groans
as every song he tries to hum
comes unstrung and tuneless
as every set of lips
on each beautiful mouth
chats away at every table
as though he weren’t there
with his tattoos and
high heels, banjos
and dobro guitars
around his feet,
twelve strings of nothing to say
swarming about him
as he sulks over the grinding beans
and cash register ka-chings!,
a spooked avenue flashes on
the other side the window
as bottle bar slides down slack key frets,
headlights swarm over art deco marquees
bragging of fabric sales
and homecoming days,
there’s a slight glance
of a pusher looking
through the window,
spitting on the sidewalk,
he walks on, side streets
go deep into the dark
where streetlights
cannot pierce groves of trees
around school yards
and bungalows,
our singer croaks,
snake tattoos run up
from his wrist
and up his sleeve,
emerge at his neck
where veins look
as though
they’ll pop
on his next high note,
books are stacked
on the tables in front of him,
the student raises
her head
from a note book she writes in
to drum her lip
with the tip of her pen,
she returns to her writing,
no music will sway her,
no applause will console him,
a shadow falls over the stage,
a stage light as burned out, cups
and dishes on empty tables,
there are instruments
to pack up and trash cans to empty,
there is no one to talk to,
and thank god
for that…,
Ted Burke
Picture Jill Moon
.