Beneath the Spin * Eric L. Wattree
of paper, pen, and saxophone;
A perfect bubble of perfect bliss,
then the telephone rings
and it goes all amiss.
A bluebird called with a siren song,
so blue, so sweet, and clear;
without her dulcet tones to caress my ear.
But soon her tune began to change -
her feathers flared when I was least remiss;
What started as nirvanic revelry
is now poised to become
a blister on my bliss.
Nevertheless I cannot rest
without her sweet song within my ear;
So as she wastes her time
flaring her feathers,
I’m building a "cage" to keep her near.
In perfect ecstacy, all alone,
in my inner sanctum
of paper, pen, and saxophone . . .
Love ya, Baby.