Her guitar was the voice comfortable.
On her forearm a tattoo faded into shadows.
Wishing and dreams wash through her
fingers. Gold rings tap a checkered
table cloth. The band playing behind her
feeds the air into the song. Stage lights steam
away past loves and promises. Her chances
of breaking out push against the fences of
her fixed boundaries. The damage of standing
still encourages the passion within to
play out.
She smiles at the drummer; fast hands battle
the beats. She knows he’s a moustache with
no place to go.
Roger Singer 