Becky Boyle

Hawkins, Per.4

Honors English



He wanders onto the raised platform,

His shoulders arranged in composure.

With an average countenance,

Politely windswept hair,

Thick, dramatic glasses,

And a reluctant shadow of a beard,

He has the casual appeal

Of a local coffee shop disciple.

The glare of the red stage beam

Makes him shimmer in his slightly under-confident guise.

He picks up his guitar

With awkward elbows, shoulders, and hands.

His chin plummets to his chest,

Tilting this way and that,

Plucking and stroking the strings

Until they squeak and whine

Under his tender caress.

Then he flicks up his head to explain his piece

In a familiar voice like that of a celebrity.

Sweet melody blossoms from his guitar

And he begins to sing, rocking back and forth,

His neck craned to reach the microphone.

He carries on, singing and strumming,

His rich, vaguely trilling voice dips along the notes,

Ensnaring the audience with lush, subdued lyrics

That carry through universes of memory

Like a conversation with an old friend.