Charged with Concert Glory and Fear

Springsteen, at the top of one phase,
sold out, of course, the mid eighties,
thundering his blue collar magic to so
many white collars, poets, old protesters,
bored accountants, taking us along.

I went too close to opening to leave
my fear home. My mangled EQUUS
script tight in my fist, waiting for the few
songs that didn’t send me heavenward
to mentally run the longer lines.

My loyalty was divided between the
fear of failing publicly and the bedrock
charge of the music sweeping through me.
At fifty something having been cast as the
doctor after lusting for the part, I was

humbled by The Boss, the master performer
from Jersey knowing every word in his wordy
lyrics and keeping the rhythm slamming
perfectly, plus pushing his strings for two hours.
All I had to do was memorize the lines.

But, no. I was humbly torn. I loved his music
as much as I was pumped to play the doctor
festooned with British words to decipher
the horse blinding boy. The intelligent script
lent me rank. The part was far more glorious

than the actor, and there I was, worried while
awash in that full sound pouring from the stage
churning my very being with aching sympathy
for songs of love and loss and championing.
It was two hours not since matched.

January, 2005 listening to the recorded concert