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Contributor: Carson Pytell

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They crowded in for the performance.
From miles from manors, mundanity and misery they had trekked
For a mere hour's witness.

The overheads were cut, the stage curtain dropped
And a spotlight from behind it was triggered to cast the
Silhouette of a man holding a guitar onto it.

A silence overtook the excited murmur,
As it always does, and there was no introduction given -
That would have been unnecessary.

Soon enough he began playing,
Sending his music into the air with a generous

If one were watching him closely,
They would have seen his hands navigating the guitar
Innately as one's chest rises and falls as they breathe,
but would be too entranced to say so.

After a while he concluded,
And his notes were left to perform their duty, which they did -

He played many other shows today;
Some on grand stages to dignitaries,
Some on unadorned platforms to couples lying in the grass,
Some on warped floorboards to winos.

Never are two at quite the same setting or to the same crowd.
And on occasion he plays at home,
And his music, apotheosized then,
May only be heard through the walls by mice.

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Carson Pytell is a poet and short story writer living in upstate New York. He reads and writes daily. His work has been published in Vita Brevis Press.


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