“When I’m singing that song —
yeah, I know it’s stupid, a stupid
song — who cares?  It’s like
I’m the star and I remember
why I liked it once, and I like it again
for a few minutes.”  She is clinging to
a margarita.  Someone
is singing a Prince song
very very badly
but the crowd screams
as if it was Prince himself
up there. 

I want to run out the door
of this young loud club, but I can’t:

it’s my turn soon, and “Dock Of The Bay”
is calling.  At least it’s not a stupid song
and I’ve always liked it
from when I first heard it
on a white clock radio
in my bedroom at fourteen. 

I’m no star
but I will do it
justice,
and then I’m gonna leave
and never come back.