The Music Man

He stands on a sticky stage in a dingy club

Alone with his guitar and his dreams

His voice and soul poured out in every line

The cheap sound system weakly projecting

Idle conversation drowns him out

Gone are the crowds and contracts

He sings to tens where once was hundreds

The audience pays no attention

They half listen, here to hear another

He doesn’t mind

He isn’t singing for them anyway 

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This describes how many writers probably feel about offering up their writing at the cafe! *wink! wink!* We keep shoving it out there, but getting a weak turnout! I did some bar-music-scenes back in the day & it's just about this dismal, precisely, whether you've ever sung to 100's or if you never got past 10. One of my guitar-slinging friends stuck it out so much more than I could ever do & hearing her tales, the only thing you missed in this poem . . . the way the performer watches all the make-out sessions being carried out across the bar, night after night as if viewing some weird biological specimens. Do people really do this in public? my friend used to ask! All in all, you nailed this one with realism & strong details (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[FGFRANKLIN]

This was amusing to read because it brought back a memory of a recent visit to the park where I take my daughter to play. I took along my guitar to keep myself entertained and sat there playing in the park. A couple boys came up and dropped dollar bills in my guitar case. I explained that I wasn't busking but thanked them and tried to give their money back. They wouldn't take no for an answer so I thanked them again. They went away beaming having done their good deed. Hopefully they were entertained too. I enjoyed the read.