One midsummer Saturday, a thickness laced the air;
A thickness of age, a thickness of regret…
Yes, a thickness of old peoples’ hair:
The elder’s home at the corner of the block.

And a group of ten, twenty, maybe just thirteen
And me -- I suppose that’s ten plus four.
And we walked and we knocked on the heavy, gray door,
A circus troupe, minus the circus;
Just us ten and four.

So we danced and performed, us volunteers;
Not talented in the slightest but it didn’t matter because
We were simply there to spread the cheer;
Just ten and four, we just volunteered.

But then came a moment,
When the hour came near,
And the face of our host grew pallid and white
As the show ended at five, and it was four-fifty,
And we had but ten minutes to blight.

And I said, hey, I can play piano
But the thought didn’t arrive
Until I sat on the piano bench, in front of ten-plus-four plus the elderly, of whom time is near over.
The thought that I knew only one song,
And that song was entitled Still Alive.

In a panic I played the song thrice as fast in the hopes that none would recognize it for its namesake,
None would be offended or think I was making a cruel joke,
Because a cruel joke it was, and one it would be.
Yet my mistake went unnoticed as I finished the piece, and went back to my seat,
And listened to the silent applause that marked a song that no one would want to repeat.