His One-Man Show
There won’t be an opening act.
When he played his first number,
I mistook him for someone else;
that’s how subtle he was.
His music swiveled around me
and lassoed me in, spinning me
until I was dizzy, unsure of
what was going on.
Confusion is playing,
I thought to myself.
I wanted to leave. I was afraid of
what he could do to me if I stayed.
But he looked into my eyes,
deeper than anyone ever has,
and arrested me.
He began strumming covers
of anger, jealousy, self-pittance
and pride, his words
encroaching upon me faster.
“I’m only human!” I cried,
in a moment of belting agony,
hoping that yelling loud enough
would draw him back a little.
His music raised above me
as though hailing my plea, then
in one thunderous moment,
plummeted down and
wrapped itself around me.
And just like that, it became
a conversation between us,
him and me.
I peered my eyes farther
onto the stage, looking for
his band members but
that’s the thing about grief;
he’s a one-man show.
He doesn’t allow anyone else
on stage when he is performing.
Not the best friend sympathy,
not the sister concern, not even
his own shadow of regret.
Centerstage. Nothing anyone does
can steal his spotlight.
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