WE GIG
We throw the word around like gold coins:
got a gig, come to my gig, gigging tonight.
We are cool, we play music for money,
not that boring classical shit, oh no,
the kind where the audience gets
hot, where they sing along, jump up
and dance because they can’t
sit still, because we’re doing our gig
and you should hear us Sunday night
’cause we are gigging and we are good.
At Kathy’s gig in a sticky-floored
warehouse full of beer, hot dogs,
and noise, she sweats on stage,
tearing out her vocal cords,
ripping up her fingertips,
overamped, a little drunk,
singing songs she wrote in tears
to heathens who will never hear,
and almost no one tips the jar,
but it’s a gig, she’s having fun.
Jason sings in the hotel bar,
playing soft tunes in a soft room
where the aging patrons sip
cabernet and whisper-talk,
clapping softly between songs
while Jason mutters to himself
and fiddles with his beatbox.
Bald and bearded, he sings
like a man sentenced to gig
for three hours every night.
He needs those wrinkled dollar bills.
Gig. Funny word. A performance,
a shortening of gigabyte,
a carriage in the olden days,
a whirling toy, a flighty girl,
a harpoon used to murder fish,
half of a giggle, don’t you know?
I’m giggling cause I’ve got a gig,
but when I say I’ve got a gig,
I want everyone to be impressed.
I’m more interesting than you,
you with your nine to five,
even if I’m singing in the rain
to three drunks and a dog.
It’s a gig and I am cool.
Come feed my tip jar, please.
—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians
__________
Sue Fagalde Lick: “I have been playing music as long as I have been writing poems. I have lugged my guitar to theaters, clubs, galleries, senior centers, and street fairs, offering my original songs and covers of others. I have sung and played piano at weddings and funerals. I led the choirs at church for pay and for free. The rhythms and sounds can’t help but seep into my poetry. It’s a good line, but can I sing it?” (web)
