Last Year's Sneakers

Back of the crowd.
Last year's sneakers.
Dreaming out loud.
(I see you)

Community hall, Friday, talent night,
me on the bill with the borrowed amp,
the caretaker's fairy lights doing their best,
plastic chairs in rows of hope,
and there — back row, by the radiator —
a kid in last year's sneakers, mouthing every word.
I know those sneakers. I wore those sneakers —
same brand, same era, same museum piece —
glued at the toe, scrubbed white for church,
standing at the back of somebody's shine
doing the maths on the distance to the front,
counting the steps like they were visas.
They told me lower your voice back then.
They told her too. I can tell by the mouthing.

Now the floor is shaking,
now the wall is thin.
She's got my old seat by the radiator
and I'm about to let her in.

Last year's sneakers!
(front row now)
I called her up to sing the second verse.
They can paper up the window —
they cannot cancel stars.

Up, up, to the front.

Up, up, to the front.
(to the front)
Stars out.
(can't cancel stars)

She froze for exactly one bar.
The hall did the thing halls do — it waited.
She wiped her palms on last year's jeans,
took the mic like a relay baton
and the radiator kids all stood up.
Her mother filmed it sideways, crying.
Someone's gran shouted "go on, girl"
in the voice grans keep for exactly this.
The caretaker turned the big lights warm.
She sang the bridge better than I sing it —
I'll deny that in interviews — and grinned
the grin of a kid whose maths just changed:
the distance to the front is four steps.
After, by the squash and biscuits table,
she asked me how to hold a high note.
I told her. All of it. Everything I know.

Now the floor is shaking,
now the wall is thin.
The back row's by the radiator —
and I keep letting them in.

Last year's sneakers!
(front row now)
She sang my bridge like she'd written it.
They can paper up the window —
they cannot cancel stars.

Hey! Back row!
(front row now)
This one's for the dreamers.
(hold it up)

The secret is, the crown was never mine to keep:
I took the shine off my own head,
mic still warm, shoes squeaking on the floor,
set it on the small,
on the kid who learned to whisper
in a too-loud, narrow corridor.
What they meant to break you with
is the thing you're shining for.

Last year's sneakers!
(front row now)
Four steps and the whole hall singing.
They can paper up the window —
they cannot cancel stars.

Glued at the toe.
(front row now)
Last year's sneakers.