Humming and mm-hmm-ing
in the back of the bar
behind the spotlight that felt
like a train coming at you on stage.
I always perform better
a little tired with a headache,
and no one I know in the audience,
which is perfect in Paris, Tennessee.
Shaking hands and turning down drinks
after words, hiding with justice
and a club soda,
going over the injury in my head.
A hand on my shoulder
and it's the ukulele gal
who killed me with her
cover of Skinny Love.
I have a hotel down the street,
yet might could use a cuddle,
no morning just a poem,
but this one is better than that.
Leaving in charge,
even turning down Taco Bell,
got to hit the sack tonight
to hit the pavement tomorrow.
A stop and a sonnet,
sleepy-eyed singers,
the humming and the hecklers,
all swinging in silence like chalk on the wall.