in the air like a teenager, kicking my
thoughts around, listening to dinah
washington singing the blues, telling
the truth in my room where it's safe,
in my room where it's just me and the
record player and nothing else.
sometimes carl sandburg or hafiz or t.s.
eliot but that's it and it's only us in here
dreaming and scheming and
wondering; figuring it all out, all of
life with coffee and tea and postcards
from belgium from france; from
san francisco from sydney. pretending
they are tiny windows, looking out
my windows and seeing across the
horizon to a place far far away,
dinah washington singing all the time.
the trumpet player wailing all the time.
brushing my hair, kicking my thoughts
in the air, dreaming and scheming
and wondering all the time.
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