Song for Unattainable Men
I’ve been waiting, have you dreamt of me?
since I penetrated your left eardrum
with my flute solo, the one I played for you
on that slick cardboard and scotch-taped instrument.
I was a virtuoso then, at ten,
and I’m still waiting.
Have you dreamt my melody?
I see the opening in your ear sucking
on the flirtatious patter of overgrown girls
with your eye for propriety
and lust for that candy, that syrup,
those vapors, while I play.
My flute is sterling now; I play it solo.
Open-holed like your ear and I thought
the two of you would get along.
Snakes do their bidding, as I seduce them
for their venom, but my song dies
in empty chambers when you hear.
Maybe, though, I could be wrong.
Maybe my music fills your dreams
with liquid crescendos, my silver grip,
and you with your sense of propriety
and place can tolerate clatter and chat
but awaken shaken with my solo in your song.
Do you turn to the medicine cabinet
in navy hours of the night
looking for liniment and swabs
to comfort tears that your ear cries?
Tears that weep from the hole
I put in your dreams one night.