Singer on River Street, Savannah, Georgia

With a few words, did you place her in the front row?
Her eyes, raw from elsewhere, beg your attention.
Perched apart from the rest, she is the hungriest one.

Did she come to see you? Your mind traces back
the last week’s sequence — first your text to the drummer
that he passed to the agent, the agent to the booking man,

the booking man’s tip that set the newspaper rolling.
The front page displayed you. Whooping, you drank till dawn.
On the quiet nights, awake in your dorm room,

you stare at the sky and dream its machinery.
How many gears does it hold? Can your words conduct them?
Through so many reactions, you took the stage

in this city kept by chance, the blocks that Sherman spared
the backdrop as you tuned and set the tip jar down.
In this room may be connections, the unexpected prize

that the right song or smile brings. The woman watches you
watch her. She swallows, cups her hands for warmth.
You say she sought you, not shelter, that her wet feet wound

past the tall ship, the carriages, the rain-spangled river;
the current you started with your fingers on the pad
has changed the motion of the street here, placed a body

where no body was before. Where does the current
go from here? Does she stay? Depart by dawn?
Everything offstage suspended, you cue the next song.

*First published in The First Thing Mastered (Tebot Bach, 2013)

Michael Miller is the co-founder of Moon Tide Press, the author of five books of poetry, and a former entertainment and community news journalist for the Los Angeles Times. He currently teaches English and coordinates the visiting-author program at St. Cyril of Jerusalem School in Encino, California. You may read more about him and visit his blog at www.michaelmillerpoet.com.