I want to be your ampersand
and pop song-stop-you-in-the-drive-
way-to-listen, kissing you sideways,
recollection man. When that one
Beetles’ track about love
comes on, no matter who you’re with,
you’ll think of me twisting
out of shape to join you in a city
that made a molehill of me.
Let me be your plus one, or even
just the plus. Someone must headline
this show and when the curtain closes
you’ll string me around your finger.
You’ll send me off into the atmosphere
tethered to some point near, but not,
actually your ring finger.
I’ll be the key in this history play,
swinging in the electric storm between the kite
and you dragged out as Benjamin Franklin.
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