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Some shares from Sister Gail's art and music work

The Folksinger

He never really expected it at twenty-nine

And when it still hadn’t happened at thirty-seven

He wasn’t terribly surprised.

But suddenly, with summer gone, he was forty-six

And the dream was still unfulfilled.

For twenty-something years he had paid his dues,

Working in bars and clubs in small towns

Time after time he loaded too much equipment

Into a car too small

And drove to an audience too far away

Then yesterday he looked (really looked)

At the sum total of his miles on the road and

The sacrifice of losing a wife and three sons along the way

His guitar, once new, was now aging and scratched,

His microphone and speakers

Reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke

And packed among the other frayed and worn out tools of his trade

Was his faded dream of discovery

For the first time he acknowledged the talent scouts were never coming

To towns like McVitty or Scott

For the first time he accepted there was no yellow brick road from Port Jefferson or Grover Hill

And for the first time, he knew it was over

The Folksinger

© 1986 Paul C. Reed