my ******* are drums
my feet are numb
can’t move –
strung on the notes he plays
hung on the melody –
Breathlessly
the stubble on his face
Ivory
his curly hair
a harpsichord
his fruity stare
a glass of Chambord
Waltzing the Matilda
with him
swinging hips
looking trim
under the glare
of Times Square
eyes locked as keys
in the ***** breeze
of New York New York