I can picture him still:
big, bulky, bearish
a lumberjack build easily brandishing
that mighty axe,
swinging it wildly across the stage
before expertly holding
and playing such barrish chords.

I could tell from his bellow
exactly what he looked like
with puka shells
and careless beard
and a shaggy mane framing his face.
I saw him so clearly
so perfectly
and so perfectly wrong.

That bookish professor
I eventually uncovered in interviews on the Internet
bore little resemblance
to the man
in my imagination.
His glasses and bald spot
and slight slight frame
were not in the least like that
of the warrior songster
I so magnificently envisioned.

The artist incarnate is nothing like
what I knew he would be.
How could I have been so mistaken?
What did I get so wrong?
Why did he fail
so completely
to live up
to my expectations?

I still listen to the recordings
and still, sometimes,
I think of him
as the way he was meant to be
before he disappointed me
by not even owning
the appropriate fur-lined boots.