It was an opening.

It was an opening.

Not the beginning,

That happened long ago,

But a way in.

It can be tricky,

On the outside.

Cold and lonely,

Waiting for a chance,

Somebody to notice,

Stop for a moment,

Take the time,

To smile.

Press a piece of silver

Into his palm,

The warmth from the door

Washing over like balm,

That brief burst of music,

An indie guitar lick,

The coffee smell

He remembered, before

It all went to hell.

With his nose

Pressed against the glass

He can spend all day

Looking inside.

Wondering what he

Might be missing,

Feeling excluded

From the mainstream.

Drifting in the shallows,

Sleeping in shadows,

A hollow man,

Doing what he can

To stay alive.

It was often so cold

He perfected a hand jive

To accompany his

Little dance,

When he got the chance

To shine, with a little mime

And a song or two.

When he played guitar

It sounded truly blue,

And today he was noticed,

By a strange looking guy,

With a patch over one eye,

Who stopped,

Before passing by.

Pushed a card in his hand.

Said he managed a band.

‘Give me a call…’

Taken aback

He tried not to fall.

What you got to lose.’

He mumbled.

As his stomach rumbled.

‘If truth be told…

Nothing at all.’