Prop the new flattop in my
Father's lap -- He thumbs a slow
chord, follows with a clean seventh
I press that slick solidbody
close to my ribs,
fingers eager to hit a few
cigarette-burn honkytonk licks
Settle on an old favorite
-- I can croon the hell out of this one
We almost hit the chorus
before I notice your eyes
Blaze-red and screamin' --
You cover your face -- buckle
let out two heaving sobs --
The little girl awakens, remembers
and spills onto your hands
Guess I never knew
Those whinin' rhinestone notes
could draw that kind of blood
Saturday, August 2, 2008
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2 comments:
Brian! Seriously, I am so head-over-heals for your poems, and THIS one is unbelievable! I can't really even find words to explain how it hit me! Gosh, I miss you! Come visit SOON, I'm getting withdrawl symptoms!
I like stories about stories. This is a poem about poetry - hard to do, but you do it very well.
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