The drunken hustler in the muscle shirt
Finishes his awkward rendition of
“Desperado.”
Applause and relief follow him
To his table of cohorts
Where he receives slaps on the back
And empty praise.
She emerges from the smoky recesses
Where her only friends were
A Beam and coke and a
Half-empty pack of Marlboros.
She stands before the mic,
Gray eyes full of sadness,
Her smile looking
Unfinished, incomplete.
Her gaze round the room
Takes in the patrons:
Another Saturday night
Gathering of souls looking for
Identity, comfort, escape
Acceptance.
The DJ begins the music;
Her voice, carrying years of anguish,
Rushes through the room.
As her volume increases,
Talk diminishes,
Until all focus on the
Slender girl in the torn jeans
Standing in the spotlight.
Drinks forgotten,
Conversation silenced,
Even the waitress pauses in her rounds.
More than melody …
More than words …
Her voice is the journey
Of a life hard fought,
Fraught with pain and
Battle scars.
Under the cocktail tables
Hands reach for comfort,
Consolation.
The song ends and she retreats
Oblivious to the catcalls and cheers.
The chubby girl, posing at the bar,
Decolletage revealing her only charms,
Moves toward the mic
Ironically to sing “Respect.”
The moment, forgotten,
As another round of alcoholic
Dreams is purchased
at the Karaoke Bar.