Poem

My Answer To An Invitation From Rosanne Cash To Sit In With Her For An Acoustic Performance At The Rubin Museum Of Art

I’m flattered of course but I must

confess I don’t play

guitar or a wind instrument  

of any kind, the

nylon strings on the Silvertone

on which I practiced

a cats cradle beneath my soft

fumbling fingers,

the school trumpet that always left

me kind of blue, one

of many youthful dead ends. 

Let me be up front

about my limited vocal

range, my pathetic

inability to carry

a tune in a five

gallon bucket amplified by

a profound fear of

public speaking, a crippling

shyness going back,

yes, to my peripatetic

youth.  But I can see

you won’t take no for an answer,

not surprising, you

the daughter of the Man In Black,

me a man possessed

of subtle dormant talent that

waits only for a

spotlight, stool and a tambourine.