Punk

poetry

And as you stood there
as I played, your gaze
leveled from behind those
spectacles and your denim
jacket pulling your dare
-I-say perfect breasts
out just enough, I could
hear your voice over
the blaring of my saxophone,
and could feel the burn
from your big green eyes,
and I don’t know where
you are, and I don’t know
who you are, and I don’t
think either of us give
a good god damn, but
I could feel the burn
from your big green eyes,
and the saxophone was
in the way, but I was
smiling

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