Platinum
What's the point of art?
I used to look at the bar singer, with pity.
With anguish.
One song away from stadiums, the way he held the crowd. The way we’d all stand still, pints full, listening.
One missed connection, surely.
One short-handed deal, gotta be.
One turn a foot too early, slight right, should’ve gone straight.
Today, my gray hairs aren’t flukes or sunbeams hitting blonde strands.
Today, my knees tell me the weather and my back tells me when it’s time to go home.
Today, when I listen to the bar singer, I see only tapping boots and trembling lips in the crowd. Wandering hands finding their way to another’s hip.
Today, I trust the bar singer’s smile. I trust his dancing fingers and flooded eyes.
I shake his hand as the lights come on – his voice hoarse, my palms red.
Platinum. Double Platinum. Diamond.