dig skinny white guys but love The Girls
It was the bass player she watched during practice
but the drummer who walked her home, his hair
smelling of herbal rinse, hers of violent sex
with strangers. Ears ringing with the lead's
desperate plea to burn his guitar, music
was her high-speed commuter train.
Left behind, she found herself walking
beside a guy who remembered a time
when men had gizzards and wore skirts.
His bare feet slapped wet pavement:
the rhythmic longing of a man
for the drums he loves more then the
girl who walks through walls
and his life without leaving a trace.
That night the angels kissed him
while he slept: the luckiness of a star.
There is another way to stay cool,
sweet, sweet nothing in her ears
and another hole in her head.
The angels will still love her
because she was easy
on herself and took the time
to love everybody else.