It means nothing,

a scrawl of a name upon a sheet

of type faced paper,

the songs upon it mean the world

but they could have come from

your own computer, your own stubbed-

out fingers creasing upon your ink dried

heart, then signed by the artist…

however…

pen written, the taste of ink on the fingers

of the flowering talent,

of the smile that comes with it for free,

two way mutual respect and admiration

and the surge of holding

onto the setlist, shaking as they dedicate it

to you, you and you alone,

and the delight they take in handing

it to you, your sweaty palms

fumbling in the semi dark, semi

naked thanks pouring out of your mouth

as you notice the small drawing

they have done of themselves

in the corner

which wasn’t there when you

handed it them to sign;

you cannot help but fall in love

and you find yourself babbling

in their presence, mentioning

that you will find the perfect frame

and they smile, they smile

with ease because they know

for a brief second

they have changed your day.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016