The Musician

I have this friend,
This sort of
musician.
He
Plays
His own songs
And all that,
With all his own
Friends
And they are
Pretty good.
Not my tastes
Of course,
But nothing really
Is,
These days.
He tells me
That he’s going to be
Big
As those few colossus
Chosen.
He played
At an
Elementary school
And some kids
Wanted his autograph,
And I guess that was big
To him.
He tells me
He’s going to be real big,
Alright.
He told his mother
That he’s going
To move out
Early and go to school
And pay for a house
And play music
With his
Little group.
They argued
And I sat there
And listened
And we eventually
Left.
And he complained
The whole damned
Walk home
About his parents
And his
Music
And how they
Didn’t believe in
Him.
He said
All he needed
Was his guitar
And his dream.
And my God,
I thought,
When I talk
About my
Poetry
And things,
He doesn’t
Seem so
Interested
But now here I am
Talking to him
About how
He’s sure
To make it.
Then I thought about
All the musicians
In this town
Who thought they would
Make it,
And maybe
All the writers.
And it almost
Made me give up,
But then I wondered
If he ever thought
About it.
And I asked him,
And he said,
“Look
I’m going to be big.
I know it.
Have you
Heard us play?
We’ll
Make it.”

And a secret
Part of me
Wants to believe
That someone will
Read this
Some day
In some book store
In some town I’ve never
Heard of,
Far away
From here,
But I don’t know
If anyone worth
Mentioning
even reads
Poetry
Anymore.
But
For all the
Drunken
Ghost of poets
Like me
Out there
In small towns
Full of big musicians
Who will make it
Big
Someday,
Don’t be too
Discouraged or
Deprived of
Yourself,
If you’re going
To be a poet
Be cocky if you must,
But never too
Confident
In your
Own self-doubts,
Because that’s when
The poet
Becomes
The musician.