Stage Left

(3 am, after Dish and Infinity)

You watch him
channel Sinatra.
You know
He knows
he's desired,
is being desired -

Then you trip.

Wires around
your well-heeled heels
The stage lights
making a halo
out of your brown hair.

To stop the Blush
from burning you alive

You say

You're Such A Great Songer!

Songer,
not Singer, not
the machine we use to sew,
not the man,
he who sings,
but the one who songs.

Across from you,
in this dark bar
full of beautiful people
seeking consolation,
some kind of diversion
on another Friday night,
she speaks of
how it feels

To really love.

The same lights reflect off her glasses
So you see who she's missing.

For once you wish
You were capable of such
Self-flagellation.

Meanwhile the Songer
has forgotten about You
and the Blush that has made
Ashes of your Feet.