This is how the headliner becomes a policeman.

You walk toward the stage
wearing the invisible badge
of contractual responsibility.

You become Officer No Encore,
Sergeant That’s Enough,
Chief Inspector We Discussed This.

You tap the musician on the shoulder
and say quietly,
“Time.”

They look wounded.

Not angry—worse:
artistically misunderstood.

For one terrible moment
you are no longer their musical hero.

You are the landlord
turning off the electricity
during the final chorus.

They leave the stage
to enormous applause,
partly for the songs
and partly because the audience
has seen the rescue party arrive.

Then you walk out smiling,
already forty minutes late,
and say:

“Good evening.”

As though you have not just
arrested a folk singer.