“Lordy, lovin’ somebody doesn’t make them love you,”
a bar singer blurted though
drunken guitaring sounded good

Pressed to the wall, I clutched
a beer like it was your hand
trying to remember to forget what you felt like

Handing me a pen I had a fan
far from demure who wanted me to sign here, here, and here
Sign away the rights to my life

Instead, I pressed on into the crowd
a bit closer to the stage, further from the door
away from them

Towards the mic, and now I’m a singer
not a cowboy, just a city boy with the blues
I rambled through your favorite

Published by Adam

Adam F. C. Fletcher helps organizations engage people more successfully. Contact him by calling (360) 489-9680 or emailing info@adamfletcher.net.

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