For forty years, I’ve sung and played;
each bar, garage or concert stage
has its own ghosts, its private songs.
They do not share them all.
Some of these venues are long gone,
while others stand with different names;
those that remain all show their age.
We all get older, year by year.
The players, too, have come and gone
to better gigs or greener lawns;
sometimes, I hear of their success
and wonder if they think of me.
In forty years, I’ve found that songs
evolve or die. To stay the same
means fade away, and is not love;
I’m missing Buddy Holly now,
and many more I’ve never met
except perchance as lingering shades
who hang backstage, behind the lights
and sometimes, hum along.
05 APR 2013