That Same Ole Song
She watched him pluck the strings.
His fingers up and down the frets
of her spine,
pulling out notes and moans
from deep within the cavity
of her hollowed-out chest.
Apollo’s golden lyre lulling the muses
beyond their sensibilities.
Grooves of passion causing a riff
and changing his tune.
Needing space like air.
The Pied Piper’s pitch filling
the acoustics in the room.
The arpeggio scaffolding and bending,
burning the bridge and lacing
the capo around her neck,
causing her to fall flat.
Vibrato measured
in octaves and picked over.
Metronomic dissonance clashing
through their progression
Until the blue notes scaled her back
into a solo improvisation.
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