And finally, a new poem. Again it’s going for some more concrete imagery.
Open Mic Light
Lights dim in a room that would be smoky,
leaving one solitary spot on the stage
where a man takes his place, all wrapped in rhyme,
to bare his soul a chord at a time.
Bathed in white, inflicted with blue,
with a splash of red when things get angry,
he talks and talks and talks
in song but no one is listening,
instead staring into their drinks,
ignoring the venom dripping from his throat.
Six strings and his voice slither from table to table
like a rattlesnake looking to bite
but on Friday night, where it’s open mic,
all the people want is not to listen,
so he slinks off into the evening,
defanged and downhearted,
yet strangely melancholic no more.