Our Failed Rock Band

poem

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We broke up before we wrote
a note. Driving now, I hum 
in baritone—we would've been

a trio that mostly played slow
and noisy. I daydream
about being good enough

to play a show at my college
where all the Catholic girls
who'd never paid attention

to me would be surprised 
by my talent and jump
onstage and share the mic

with me. We would've sang
together. Of course, in order
for that to happen, our band 

would've needed to play cover
songs—songs on the radio—
songs that Catholic girls

would know by heart. 
And, looking back, it seems
that I mostly had crushes

on the Catholic girls who
were genuinely Catholic—
the ones who went to Mass

on college Sundays even
though their parents weren't
there to make them go.

I loved the believers even
as I disbelieved. Of course,
my bandmates—both of whom

never went to college
and were utterly devoted
to slow and noisy punk—

would've rebelled against
my desire to play Top Forty hits.
So we would've broken up

anyway because of creative
differences. And the Catholic
girls would've walked by me again

because I would've been
a No Hit Wonder. And where
are my theoretical bandmates

now? One works in forestry
and one works the family farm.
They work with their hands.

They touch the earth 
while I sit in parking lots
and write poems. I'm still

a non-believer in God
but I often attend services
in the Church of Nostalgia.

There you'll find me singing
along with the hymn book.
Don't forget, don't forget,

I intone. Please, as you grow
older, don't forget the failed
dreams that ache like a broken
	shoulder in the cold.