A Smokey limerick on the long-play
There once was a song that took hold
of a child, cause the tale that it told
made her feel flushed and held
until she was compelled
to play it again, to behold
the craving encased in each note
that slipped from the singer’s sleek throat—
cause the beg that he sighed
made her ache from inside.
She was moved by his words to devote
her tomorrows to all that he said.
She was told she was out of her head.
But his tenor dug deep,
interrupting her sleep,
so she did some wild dreaming. Instead
of singing it dizzy, she would
pretend that he loved her, or could.
In her mirror, she braced
for his kiss, and the taste
of his mouth. Every day, there she stood
in a room by herself, all alone
with a body no longer her own.
All her soul was engrossed
in no more than a ghost,
every moment a new stepping stone
toward an empty she didn’t dare to name,
knowing Smokey was never to blame
though she whispered, No fair
her hip-heavy waltzing a shame.
But if the song made her prefer
the conjure, the hot him and her,
she would live in her head,
stunned in love, newly wed,
the real just a feverish blur.
So she drowned in the silk of his voice
just because there was never a choice.
She was helplessly shook
by his ooh la la hook,
not a thing left to do but rejoice
in a romance that really was none
and a two that was really just one.
She was fatally awed
by a falsetto god—
his wooing had left her undone.
There once was a song that took hold
of a child, cause the story it told
made her feel flushed and held
until she was compelled
to give in to the lies that it sold.