The only fans of old Trevallion
are shifting the air above his head,
as he drags a quiet metal note
from deep in the body
of a bruised guitar.
You need to listen closely
to eliminate the rhythm of blades
keeping a different time,
to a different song
that sounds a little too mechanical.
Only three or four in the early crowd
have come to see him.
He doesn’t draw many, any more.
Perhaps he never did
but, he’s played for a long time
in so many broken places,
with that quiet metal note above
the soft humming of a chorus
whirred to a beat
that feels a little too mechanical.
Some notes don’t play
as sweetly as they used to.
Some days the old guitar won’t play at all,
just chords that are nothing like
the melodies they ought to be but,
a day without Trevallion plucking someplace
is the feeling of a hearts demise.
As long as there’s a fan somewhere
he’ll play those quiet metal notes,
even if they sound
a little bit
© Frank Prem, 2001