by Michael Buckingham Gray

the night is stone cold
but here you are
on the club’s stage,
lifting up your microphone
to a group
of grey hairs.

you pinch yourself
finding it hard
to believe you are still here.

you tell them a story,
you sing them a song
& by the end of the night
lash the stage
with so much sweat
that the crowd believes
summer is back.