Giving Up The Business
How in a dusty theater office, the day after the concert,
old, worn, dirty, devoted to the shoestring,
holding on by nails kind of business done in a back water town,
low, afternoon sun coming through the dirty windows,
us discussing fees over coffee with whisky in it,
I suddenly saw in your manager's face what it once meant,
what it still does to you, along with it just being a job.
Me too, playing music that's OK, not what I'd planned on
The lines, the grey hair, the traces of cigarettes and drink,
Too many disappointments, those you've felt,
Even more the ones you had to break to players, like me.
Seventeen years, you told me once, you've been at it.
You almost look as much a part of the place as the chipped varnish,
The scratches that won't ever get fixed, the dust backstage.
Too wise to buy the lies of the spotlight, the flash on the props,
Sadder for that but to me a sudden knowing of the dull sadness that turns to a habit
Too comfortable to risk falling into.
But your tired smile shows what might point beyond it.
c. 1987
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