The PerformerShe makes her face up, picks her frock,
Goes to the club and hopes she doesn’t play a crock
Of shitty, shoddy work that night.
Gets there on time; the sound is set.
She starts to play; she’s planned her set.
The baby pink is not quite right –
You know, the baby pink spotlight.
Her phrasing’s delicate but bright.
Though she’s a pro, raring to go
There’s always just a bit of nerves:
The need to please. She feels she serves.
That’s good. The voice is good, quite good.
That song came out as best it could.
The people clap. Some even shout
And whistle. “How about
Another tune?’ She sings another.
Finally the evening’s over.
Just like that: a moment’s bubble.
Was it really worth the trouble?
People who’ve just seen the act,
The ones who sat, admired, practically
Dying for a skill they lack,
Who long for what seem so attractive,
Think that after she’s performed
She goes to any place but home,
But that’s exactly where she’s headed:
Home, a bite to eat and bed.
No frilly glamour in this art,
Just daily practicing and heart,
Mind, soul, evolving luck;
A mucking in, not mucking up.
The underlying need to grow
Sleeps underneath the this-night’s show.
A groping upward, outward and
A digging inward guides her hands
And every member of the band’s.
©The Performer 92.12.6
Vaguely About Music;
Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 