the guitar
was like your
second tongue
a sad
accompaniment
to your
self-destructive
muse
those songs
you played me
on the homemade tape
where, in some way,
a lyrical foreshadow
to all
that follow.
tell me:
are you happy now
now that you are
singing in the clouds
the way you do
and listening
to the rock
and the punk
and the doo wop
singers slinging
their a capella
street corner
sounds
are you still pretending
you don't like
a single note?
is it really heaven
there,
to hear
a song you love
then wait for the
tiny intermission
between the bands
just enough time
to think and joke
and maybe make
some small talk
with a group of friends
before the final act?
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