just in case there was a talent scout in line behind her

at the bagel shop, or walking past her in the mall,

or listening from the adjacent dressing room

while she tried on school clothes

at Target in the third grade.

I’ve seen photographs of the concerts

she put on in nursing homes

with her Spice Girls cover band.

I know the chocolate pudding cups

in the hands of her audience members

couldn’t keep her from taking it

so seriously she lost friends in the process,

tiny girls who couldn’t reach the high notes

of her expectations, so I’m not surprised

to find myself sitting alone

at the karaoke bar eating French fries

while she practices her song

in the restroom stall, the same song

she’s been singing all week

in the shower, in the ice cream aisle

at the grocery store, on our long drive home

from puppy training class, or climbing the stairs

to couples therapy where I tell our therapist

that I believe she starts arguments

just so I’ll storm out of the house

and leave her alone with the living room

acoustics. Since she left me here,

I’ve heard a drunk college boy sing

Like a Virgin, the irony no doubt intended

to prove him very unlike a virgin. I’ve heard

a woman in a neck brace sing Whitney Houston

while snapping bubble gum

through the instrumental bridge.

I’ve watched a man in a half-shirt sing With a Little

Help from My Friends exactly like Joe Cocker

might have if he’d had a hard time

making friends. Everything about the place

takes me back to where I come from, a small town

where dreams never come true,

so nobody ever stops dreaming.

A place where you are loved

not for how well you sing

but for your willingness

to pick a song everyone will want

to sing with you. My girl isn’t exactly

from another world, but she’s an out-of-towner

in the sense that I’m terrified

the world will end if she can’t

hear a pin drop when she sings

You Were Meant for Me,

which is actually sung

in a very difficult key—E minor,

with a moderate, swinging tempo

of 114 beats per minute. If she doesn’t

nail it at the beginning,

it will be nearly impossible

to come back from. The only way

she won’t be doomed is if she jumps

an octave right before the first words

of the chorus, which are, Dreams

last so long—and yes, they do.

Even after they’re gone.

But dreams are never really gone

if someone’s dreaming with you.

You wanna know what my girl says

to every artist she knows? She says,

I’m rooting for you.

So I know more about Jewel’s music

than is probably sane to know, sitting here

listening to a bachelorette rap Eminem

over the bartender screaming, Douglas!

Come get your chicken wings!

As I check over my shoulder for talent

scouts and wait for my girl

to sing.

WHAT YOU WISH YOU’D SAID TO THE HIGH SCHOOL GUIDANCE COUNSELOR