You agree to stand
in the light.

They agree to sit
in the dark.

Already
there is something suspicious
about the arrangement.

You bring them songs
made from the remains
of former versions of yourself:

the hopeful one,
the wounded one,
the one who believed
talent was a kind of passport
and the border guards
would eventually wave you through.

Some nights
they love you.

You must be careful
about that.

Applause is a weather system.
It arrives loudly,
moves the trees,
then goes somewhere else.

Some nights
they do not love you.

You must be careful
with this too.

After many years
you understand
that the audience
is not a jury.

Nobody is on trial,
although you have spent
most of your life
presenting evidence.

Exhibit A:
the song.

Exhibit B:
the hands still moving.

Exhibit C:
the old photograph
in which you possess
more sex appeal
and less information.

Eventually the body
begins renegotiating
the contract.

Then there is the piano.

Black, enormous,
waiting.

It remembers nothing
of your career.

This is one of its virtues.

You sit.

You place your hands
on the keys.

For a moment
before the first note,

you own nothing.

No reputation.
No reviews.
No younger self
waiting to be avenged.