“Don’t They”
By David Sheftman
The rhymes don’t work
They don’t. Don’t they?
The rhythms gone
It is? OK.
And here I stand
At 83
Etched lines on my face
Weak at the knees.
Voice like a jaggedy blade
Eyes hiding behind shades
Dying a little
And some days a lot
Fading, fading
From the sweet spot.
The notes are off
They are. Are they?
Reviews tear me down
They do. Do they?
I can’t play
I can’t?
Can they.
I’m limbo-ing between
Earth and sky
Staring at truths
And turning from lies
They’ve buried me good
I’ve not said my goodbyes.
Give it up they say
Step on out of the way
Still, I do my stuff
When the lights go up
They’re dragging me down
But my spirit’s unbound.
I once was asked
At a presser in S.F.
“How do you see yourself?
Poet?
Musician?
Friend?
Maybe a politician?
At a dead end?
Maybe a prophet,
If so, what’s your plan?”
To which I said then
And I’ll say it again.
I see myself
As a song and dance man.
