I loved your stories of the old times - <br />the endless journeys of the band bus, <br />Judy with her black-eyed girl, <br />the first action at each hotel <br />the drawer taken from the chest, <br />you laid in it; the band singer filling in <br />between the famous stars; knowing <br />the bridges between the famous verses <br />which singers seem to love so much <br />as if they're nearer private lives <br />of songwriters who have lives; <br />the visits to Stan Laurel, modest, <br />bright-eyed, pining for his Oliver.. <br />the glittering night-time life <br />of wartime, almost-still-1930s <br />of the Hollywood refugees; <br />told by the not-quite-famous who <br />performed in front of the famous; <br />the time when thanks to you <br />I spoke to Gloria Swanson on the phone.. <br />I hear the footsteps of the high-heeled life; <br />I smell the perfumes now no longer made. <br /> <br />I thank you for all these and more. <br />And if some of them <br />were not quite true, <br />then thank you for the care <br />with which you told them; <br /> <br />true dreams - dreamed truth.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0395-sunset-boulevard/
