The stage was warm tonight and finally
someone had heard of me before I faced the crowd.
There’s a love story I never tell but I gave it away
in Indianapolis and every heart in that room
remembered its first surrender.
Too bad you can’t bank whatever magic
appears in sacred basements of midwest commissaries.
The wet sponge rests on your head
and the immortality of tonight never means
tomorrow will be better.
There is no life for 2nd place.
You leave the stage and the Old Style’s replace high fives.
You don’t have to crash with the gutter punks
because when you do well the bartender
remembers he has an air mattress in his living room.
The girl who hated New York before you got on the mic
now wants to know all about the city.
And you can give yourself two hours
to revel in the good life
because you found the only way to live in the moment.
And tomorrow when you wake up in
the cold room of an old Victorian
the sun will cut through the blinds like gold bars.
And the cat who shares your pillow
will remind you of a warm bed you slept in once
where the dreams came easy
and everything that hurt
could still be forgiven.
lemosrockstar