One summer eve I shared the stage
with a hero of wit, word and whim.
So I have endeavoured to pen a poem
in fear that the memories will dim.

It was Thursday December 20,
the year was 2012.
A group of us trundled off
as a Christmas Show (was to) be-held.

The line was short, the doors ajar
so into the church we ambled in,
Delighted to find the seats in front
upon the carpet lay vacant.

Perched like parishioners on the pews
we waited, as the eve faded to night.
Following Courtney and the interval
Dazza stepped into the stage light.

He held a green guitar in hand,
outfit in striped shirt attire.*
Telling stories, playing songs,
laughs spread like toast and wildfire.

Then there was helped required
by this pinball playing musician,
to help prompt the lyrics
for a new songs live rendition.

My hand raised (like a child) on quick
and I offered up my service,
plucked then, I a rose
on the excited side of nervous

A brief introduction and a handshake
a question asked “Was I ok?”
I replied ‘I’ll do my best’
then the song got underway.

At this point there was some
ambiguity in my tasking,
as I was slightly baffled
Just ‘what exactly was he asking?’

The tune progressed, and in this case
my actions and words were congruent
So there I stood, ‘doing my best’
impression of an unneeded autocue(nt).

The song performed titled ‘The Guitar’
was sung by rote until page three.
Then memory lapse, so like a wall
support was rendered from me.

As easy to read as the sans-serif font
on the paper in my hand I held w
as determination to hold the paper still
imprinted on my face, beheld.

My arms, hands and torso
a music stand impersonating.
We played our part, him the star,
me, a fan but not rotating.

When the song and applause ended
I was imparted with a lyric souvenir,
a hug (I suspect) in gratitude
and a story for friends to hear.

To this day I regard what occurred
in this suburban cloister,
as a rare pearl inside one of life’s
typically unjeweled pile of oysters.

*(of my school uniform reminiscent)