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Margot Wagner Plays Guitar, and All I Can Do is Jot Lame Poetry on a Newspaper

I'm sitting in the middle,
sitting on my hands,
sitting on my hopes,
sitting upside down wrongly
if it would keep
my heart from thumping
so embarrassingly loud.
Surely, she can't hear.
But I can.

So I fidget
and I fuss,
I blink hard
in silent frustration,
amazed at the boy
I've now become.
As she spills her soul,
I work small miracles
to contain mine.

I imagine her lost
in my sad eyes,
as does every other
man there in his,
but our cold eyes
will only get more so.
I wish mine would
turn bluer as reality
leaves me here, shivering.

Bluer, bluest, yet
blue all the same;
I'm still plain everywhere
but in my head,
where she beholds me
and falls a little herself,
where my own eyes
change their shade
just for a moment.


all works on this page Copyright 2002 by Paul Ryan

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