Tuesday 4th January 2011, A. Palmer
He trudged up to the mic
like a cat to water:
reluctant, with head buried in the grain of the stage
and hiding all that he could behind a guitar
used to being strummed in private.
Before him lay table after table of fickleness.
Some hadn’t noticed his understated entrance,
drinking the weekend in
and spoiling for worst joke awards;
others had and were baying for blood.
It was smoky up there,
but he didn’t need to see them to know
they were muttering like old women at a tabletop.
He could hear his choice of footwear
being ridiculed along with his hair.
Long and wispy, but not long enough
To cover his blushing cheeks,
he suddenly hated it-
maybe agreeing would get him off?
Their Cheshire grins dashed the hope,
whilst a lazy thumbs up was cast as his cue.
So cursing that the fire alarm never goes off when you want it to,
he hit an E, opened a dry mouth
and let escape the voice of one greater than the sum of his parts.