I carry a tune
like a baggage handler
thrashing Samsonites
in a cargo bay of a 747
bound for the long cold
cavern clubs of the UK,
but if I could find me
an auto tune on the cheap
on Craigslist or EBay,
maybe one day my vocal
cords can quiver enough
to convince the part of you,
gliding like Ginger Rogers
within the black and white
of your room with the lights
from Top Hat’s numbers
shimmering off the TV set
at three in the morning,
to lose the China white
into that deep black hole
within porcelain, for though
I’m surely more Fred
Flintstone than Astaire,
maybe just maybe, the ball
of melody bouncing along
my ribs, rises from the tune
like a fiery strawberry moon,
bold enough to serve the staff
as a sanguine beat far too catchy
for what’s left of you not to follow.

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