for Kyle
the
three-string
cigar box guitar that
moans
the way I used to
the
James Dean hair
and the
voice
the
color of blue
eyes
the
girls
basking bare
shoulders
in his
shades
that reflect
the everything the
nothing
of the crowd
the
calloused finger-
tips that
press
my tongue
into the
fret
of my
throat and
weave
the
wood
and
nickel
and
flesh
into a sound I
wrap around
my treble
shoulders
and
wear
into my blue
blue
night
