Poem: Quarter to Three, no one in the place

Quarter to three, no one in the place

I gotta wonder just how many of us guys

have had this notion before

bruised, battered

driving home late at night

watching a moon sprout from the clouds

inches away from full like

a freshly poured martini

I sing in the

wee small hours of the morning

to the streetlights, to the stoplights

and I try to make it as soft as I can

softer than smoke

because sometimes you sing better when you’re quiet

and sometimes it’s better to make people

lean forward and listen

I consider the idea that

after hundreds of dashboard recitals

I no longer sing it just like you

and the gift is complete

So many songs

and what I cannot know

pulling into the driveway

loading my drums into the living room

is that, beginning a half hour from now

I will hear them all again

as our national ears and eyes

give your life the final once-over

Looking back, I am happy that

my tribute arrived early

without the burden of knowledge

just a lonely man down a dark street

something to pass the time

and so quiet at the end

so quiet

and then the strings

and then it’s just

gone

First printed in The Montserrat Review

(San Jose, California)

 From the collection Great Showtunes of the American Stage   
 

Photo by MJV