Driving through a desert town,
I pass a roadside bar.
Board out front: “Open mic night.”
I pull over, grab my guitar.

Handful of locals at the tables.
Young couple at the counter.
Stage in the corner, a list the host holds.
I give my name when asked.

Wooden stool under one light,
Microphone in front of me.

I made these songs for you,
So you can sing along.
You’re deep down somewhere
In a dark room.

A burning heart inside your throat.
Bold and brave like a triceratops.

The last chord rings.
Warm light on my face,
My hands still on the strings.
People talk, glasses clink.
I don’t know what they think,
And I don’t look up.

Up the mountain in that old garage,
Gasoline smell, rust and decay,
Where the valley ran to the edge of sight,
Two people heard me play.

Some say we’re here for a reason,
And yours is clear to see:
A bird like you was born to sing.

THE END