When pressed, she lays down a longing tone,
a pleasing riff and some blue notes
and I, because it's all that I have,
my ear, my axe and my fake-book,
surround her sound like David Murray,
blowing the snot out of what are
only pretenses
of her sad and sorry world
encased in ice.
The cry me a river defense
deep in the suburban diaspora:
can she reach beyond
"he hates me now"
to shed some callous skin?
The hero that I wanted to be
gave it all to her quite willingly,
the things she didn't want to take
to get to what she needed.
Wherever you are, whatever you feel,
it's not what I am feeling for you now.
There's nothing you can say
—pretending feelings are something
besides clay.
