The long-term transaction,
Requires no thought at all,
Since it is only an idea
But that same idea
Sent Eddie Holland,
Who gave Motown words,
To debtor's prison
The best place
For songs to be from.
Proving also how it wasn't
Ever really meant
For him.
Everybody knows the story,
Thinks in fact it's exactly
Them
And the heart of every story
Loves a mystery
And the only name that comes through
The room's anechoic foam
Is one Edythe Wayne,
Who no one can determine
Is an alethonym
Or an actual person,
But a lot was lost
When creating weekly galaxies
We to this day revolve around,
Still standing in the heatwave shadows
Stopped in the name of not hurrying love
Kept hanging on without a witness
Not too proud to beg a little while ...
The blueprint for the path
In other words
Of whoever heaven cared to match,
Who's melodies still cling to the rugs
And sparkling chandeliers,
Still resound in quarry and rebar,
The foundation of the coffee shop
And corner bar, the grocery decisions at 2 am,
The endless Saturday afternoon
Shopping for everything and seeing two movies,
All for the dreaming
Of a love that could be like that,
How longing with enough badgering
Can float,
What Berry Gordy prophesied
As he created a slot for the heart
To fit tight as a Heidelberg pin
In the vast cosmos of the blues.
