Applauding

I first saw

Burt Bacharach

in Laughlin, Arizona

in one of those tacky

riverfront casinos,

where he was playing

a one-nighter

in between

his popular years.

He led the orchestra

like a basketball coach,

viscerally and impatiently,

bringing many moments

from the soundtrack

of my Southern California

existence

to life.

Leaving the theatre

I passed a small,

ivy covered enclosure.

It sounded,

smelled like

an afterparty.

Through a missing slat

in the chain link fence

I saw him,

surrounded by

a multigenerational retinue:

he was trim,

stylishly grey,

approachably shorter

and everything

I wanted

to be

when I used to dream

I would grow up

to be

my own version

of him.

I stood there

and started

applauding,

just applauding,

and I kept applauding

in that steady, insistent way

that cut

through all conversation,

until I caught his attention.

He looked at me

and all I could say

was

“Thank you.

It was the thrill of a lifetime

seeing you tonight.”

He smiled,

tipped his head

and mouthed

“thank you”

and went back

to his conversation,

and I moved on,

thankful

that for a second

I made him smile,

scant repayment

for a lifetime of

beautiful music.

[Posted for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and sing your song.]