Of course I believe in miracles

I saw your band play

I heard them, too.
Your band played the Cranka

Now your band’s playing for the Cranka

             in a closet.

Your band’s covering Wonderwall

             covering my shift

             covering my ass. I make a lot of mistakes

but I never mistake your band.
The Beatles, my Dad would say, now that’s a band

—Blondie, surprisingly, is a band, too—

but he’d never heard your band.
Your girlfriend’s playing double bass.

Her girlfriend’s playing doubles.

Fans catch them

                          riding to rehearsal

             and ask

how they carry their instruments around,

but just wait till they see where you’re playing!
You’re playing Debussy and Da Baby

             in a diaper

                          in the moonlight.

You’re playing slide guitar on a slide.

                          I’m no tech guy

             but I bought a microscope just to see.

You’re playing elevator music in a literal lift

                          and lifting us all up.

You’re playing house in the house

             where you live.
Everyday brings smaller rooms

             and less exits

more work

                          and less fun.

I could swear the horizon’s contracting

             but I can’t see it

from my standing desk

                          or the centrelink line.

If the world’s not shrinking why are you

             playing that tiny violin?
I’m playing funny buggers,

but your band’s playing the fool

             from Twelfth Night:
             “The rain it raineth everyday”
but your band’s playing One Night Only.
I’m playing online solitaire.

I’m placing huge bets

and losing everything but my name

and that’s okay because my name’s

             on the door to your show

and it’s easier to fit your band

through the eye of a needle,

than for a rich man to enter heaven

             —especially when your band’s playing there.
It’s standing room only

             but tonight your band’s playing

                          the needle’s eye
and all our friends are here.



This poem was written for and read at a show Dan Kowald put on IN HIS LITERAL CLOSET.