My father plays a
not-so-sweet Jane
full of bum notes
and feedback.
But for you,
for you it’s like tying shoes.
A few effortless strums
with your wrinkling wrist.
That cigarette lives there,
doesn’t it? In the right corner
of your straight lipped grin,
bouncing up and down
when you tell the crowd
to take a walk on the
wi- wi- wild side.
I know you’re wearing a
leather jacket down there,
in your coffin lined with velvet,
underground.

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