Oh moon of Alabama

The girl at the front who mid-song turned to discuss
the more compelling nuances of that day's soap instalment,
was it her or the players' plummeting conviction, kerplonk,
in the sincerity of their venture that began the wave
of indifference that soon engulfed the entire audience
who, tight-scarfed and back-packed, started in groups
to abandon the performance by way of the corkscrew stair?
The bass is holed below the waterline
and the band are blow-up lifebuoys rapidly leaking air.

When the singer looks round, he's lost at sea;
as if to the valve of some last-hope dinghy, he blows
with desperation into an unresponsive mic.
But his voice cracks like glass and the sharp notes jag,
deflating expectation, piercing the dinghy's skin
so that the hissing punctures now are legion
and the penetrating melodies buckle or lose their point.
The thump from the toms is that of a doomed galley.
All non-essential personnel make gratefully for the alley,

although stalwarts in the remaindered audience hold tight
to meet the end-set silence with relieved applause.
The cellar drains. Songs twitch like fishes on the floor
and the weary writer, thankful of the darkness,
slumps on his amplifier, wondering what went wrong.
He hardly recalls his earlier buoyant spirits
and it's only the face of his loved one—
brought to his remembrance ideally bright and shining—
keeps him afloat as he too skulks quietly to the door.

(Summer 1999)