by Mel Neet

An old man walked
up to a song, his old friend
and held out his hand.
The song just shrugged
and walked out of range.

The old man snapped
his fingers and danced
in place, but the song
wouldn’t turn around

Songs don’t know you/Like you know them
They’ll go home with anyone/And never call again

The old man cried,
I knew that song
Like I knew myself
That song came
To all my best nights
When I walked faster,
and held my head higher.

Songs don’t know you/Like you know them
They’ll go home with anyone/And never call again

The old man died,
And his last friend
Was etched in the grave,
“We don’t remember your names
So why should you recall ours?
You should’ve known I’d return
All you had to do for me was hum.”