the dinner crowd,
always loud,
paying little attention 
to the folksinger

she played with
Travis picking
and sang in
her plain-spoken
way

never a paying gig,
never more than
a couple bucks
in the tip jar,
she wondered, again,
why am I here

stories of singers
in some dim Nashville
bar hitting the big time
were bullshit made up
by record companies
trying to create buzz

thumb keeping the beat,
two fingers, picking out melodies,
her voice, a counterpoint,
sweet and thin

lots of couples tonight,
leaning toward one another
over small Formica tables,
hopeful smiles on their faces

the folksinger was like
the peeling wallpaper–
a few passing glances, 
but none bothered to notice
the pretty wildflowers
on the paper or
in her heart

one more song,
her favorite,
turn off the amp,
guitar in the case,
three dollars in the jar,
long walk home