I want a T shirt with the session singer on it

Watching the band, in the special acoustic theatre
designed to work without microphones
with everyone slicked in after work wine jewels
and them playing that song that was a hit in the film Tyrannasaurus
and all our palms twitching like anaemic minnows in an acquarium-
we watched the session singer, in her too short black sequin shift
and static hair, sing for dinner.

She missed harmonies, crashed with the drum solo,
tried to fit in by tambourine hitting her hip,
smiled the unpersuasive sun of a tanning machine.

In the cold of the no flowers dressing room she thinks,
I was spotlit. I was bravado sequin heroine.
On the bus she listens through her headphones to the lyrics.
She hits her hip with her fist,
Should have spent more time listening to best hits.