John Denver

I’ll never sing at Carnegie—
My voice is quiet and small.
But there was one performance where
I did stand straight and tall.

It was the month of February,
I went to help a friend
I never much liked nursing homes,
But I guess I could pretend.

The room was hot and stuffy.
I sang and did my part.
The residents smiled and nodded.
CNAs paused and leaned against their carts.

I put my guitar in its case.
I shrugged my overcoat on.
One more task checked off my list.
“Excuse me, my name is Don.”

I turned and saw a CNA—
His eyes were deep and blue.
“I heard you play that song,
And there’s someone else who loves it too.

“His name is Greg—he’s in bed.
I wonder if you could
Come and play that song for him.
It’d mean a lot—it would.

“Greg met John Denver once.
He tells me every day—
At least he did when he could talk
Now there’s not much he can say.”

I agreed and followed him down
To the room marked forty-two,
Where to my surprise I found another
Set of eyes that were deep and blue.

His body was twisted and dying,
That was obvious to see,
But when I struck that first chord,
Those eyes sparkled and smiled at me.

We left on a jet plane—Greg and I.
I didn’t want to come back.
There was feeling in that room—
A feeling I often lack.

I finished the song and smiled.
Greg grunted and I knew
He was happy, so was I.
“Thanks for letting me sing to you.”

I wondered as I drove away,
Could I sing for Greg once more?
Or was this the last song he’d hear?
He looked so close to death’s door.

Either way Greg is bound to hear
More songs forever on
Either from me and my small voice
Or in heaven from our friend John.