He trudged up to the mic

like a cat to water:

reluctant, with head buried in the grain of the stage

and hiding all that he could behind a guitar

used to being strummed in private.

Before him lay table after table of fickleness.

Some hadn’t noticed his understated entrance,

drinking the weekend in

and spoiling for worst joke awards;

others had and were baying for blood.

It was smoky up there,

but he didn’t need to see them to know

they were muttering like old women at a tabletop.

He could hear his choice of footwear

being ridiculed along with his hair.

Long and wispy, but not long enough

To cover his blushing cheeks,

he suddenly hated it-

maybe agreeing would get him off?

Their Cheshire grins dashed the hope,

whilst a lazy thumbs up was cast as his cue.

So cursing that the fire alarm never goes off when you want it to,

he hit an E, opened a dry mouth

and let escape the voice of one greater than the sum of his parts.