About that picture I used to keep in the black leather frame,
The one I talked to several hopeless times a day . . .
Imagining . . . Playacting just to be heard, for once . . . .
Well, as it happens, I wasn’t alone intoning those soliloquies;
Someone was tuning in.
And she sings intimately about my desperation,
Such that each lyric takes me back to my time as a devotee,
Or rather, a lovelorn zombie:
He was my all-powerful boker and my salt —
At once saving and slaying me.
I held onto his roughness . . . his indifference . . .
A tepid hello here; An unanswered call there,
All so that, like a beetle in a jar,
That glow — his glow —
I, too, could lavish in.
Even my dreams were his.
And if I saw at all,
I saw him always before me, and
Would starve rather than forget him.
Under his command, time and again
I tried to true the lies, or at least truly bury them as past,
But, never buried deeply enough,
Inevitably there was the resurrection.
Yet, if you asked,
“What good are his thoughts?”
Which surely turned — at least on blue moons — to me,
If I wasn’t singing “Anytime” in my head,
I might smile at the implied certainty,
Hoping he missed laying in that den of idolatry
Where, held in my arms and my gaze — Not for his loyalty,
But for his soft brown eyes and skin, I might adore him.
How that eavesdropper did it, I don’t know;
But she sings today of my yesterday,
Taps into an illogical longing that could . . .
But no longer wounds me verse after verse —