She makes me lose control I say
cause she's nineteen with baby-fat
her waist just like a willow branch
her curves a tidal wave.



Her voice is sweet and clears her lungs
much like a mad tormented bull
which snaps its yoke and runs amok
berserking through the abattoir.



She makes me lose control I said
and all my cool has gone the way
of broken ice that's chipped and shaved
to sculpt and birth a gleaming swan.



She is to me the essence of
the paints and lights of circus shows
and me the boy who walks the aisles
the man who walks the wire.

So if I were to walk the streets
vain as any wealthy patron
with spectacles perched firmly
in this pauper's jacket-pocket

I would recognize her form, if blind
she, the angel of the storefronts
her silhouette cut razor clean
in contrast to the satin dusk.



And my eyes so cold and jaded
running across her wondrous frame
like Braille beneath blind fingertips
they turn from wolf's to teddy bear's.



She makes me lose control I say
my placid Fonzerelli cool
lay torn and tossed like carrion
which falls from awkward vulture jowls.



But if there was a time at which
Id care for things like poise or style
the time is now, as I'm laid low
grinning like an awestruck child.