29 September. Band ends.

Smattering of claps.
The chatter noises on.
The musicians, singers
are done for the night.

No encored lauds
do they get. No
need to wait: the
verdict had always
been out.

Violinist, alone
he plays to his own marching
foot. Banjo man texts,
accordion man waits.
Gee-tar man he watches
and nods, in that
usual polite way.

No applause, no laughter,
no slapping hands combat
the space of unquiet noise.

My guitarist he’s gone.
Await do I but I don’t know the reason for.
For him, I suppose. My mind well knows.
Could not leave I now.
I’ cross some

I don’t know why.

But happier am I to be talking
and being by his side.
Left or right. I don’t really mind.
Does it matter? Semantics, pedantics.
Hell, neither am I.

The bartender claps.
Ringing the bell.
That’s all, folks.
‘You have to go.
I don’t care where.’

Here I sit. Empty glass.
Empty table.
A man talks to a
man about a dog.

The world really is so small.


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