In 1882, Oscar Wilde visited the mining town of Leadville, CO. In the town's Silver Dollar saloon, he noted a sign over the piano. He later wrote, "I saw [over the piano] the only rational method of art criticism, I have come across." I wrote the following poem about the Silver Dollar Saloon and the sign, and it was recently published in the August, 2024 Issue of Saddlebag Dispatches.
The Silver Dollar
I swing the doors expecting a waft
of stale beer and rancid sweat; shabby,
not shiny like a new brass spittoon.
But the Silver Dollar Saloon fairly gleams.
It’s the place to be seen for all the wrong reasons,
iniquity’s playground, an outlaw’s oasis.
Yet, empty it echoes—a hollow shell and
vacant vessel of dreams deferred where
trouble dogs each patron’s steps,
my steps as well. Alone, I sit at piano
plunking out notes, a scrap of a song I
cobbled together those nights I barely slept;
a shadow of why I came west.
It’s my shot at redemption—showcase
my talents, find purpose banging out
tunes for miners, scofflaws, girls
of the night. Rumors tell of epic fights
and gunplay is a given.
“Mr. Harris?” A lady enters—all business.
“Yes,” I say, embarrassed, standing.
“Can you start tonight?” She asks,
not probing for training or skill. “Sure!”
I stammer, thrilled until I spot the sign, and
it’s clear why I’ve just been hired at a glance.
The reason for my swift election is manifest.
“Please don’t shoot the piano player,” the sign reads,
“He is doing his best.”
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