I have the air of an heiress tonight, and you,
you've never looked better in blue, my boy.
If only you wouldn't hit the keys so hard.
I can hear them pop into place.
Sometimes a muscle twists in my chest
and must be reset. Even after, I can feel
the socket. It can be avoided
by better posture, as can being left
for a taller woman, someone
who doesn't sit for hours in the dark
with the radio on like some kind
of Tennessee Williams heroine. I promised
no love songs and intend to show restraint.
To what, then, shall we dance?