She knew her stuff.
I strutted mine
in naive fingerings,
rough-handed chords
to cradle nerves with gall,
and chop emotion everywhere
it needs to fall, each moment
picked and rang with perfect
feeling fixed, in broken words
and admixed pure.
She seemed to like it. Quite a bit? Hey,
Want some more?
Oh sure, she beamed! Enjoying
right and wrong and tart
and sweet along. After a few,
"Hey, play a slower one!"
She sang, she called.
A song.
I felt some cue.
I trained on her my worst
best perfect one. And beautifully,
I gave it due. She took it
thoughtfully.
"That's good," she mused.
But not for me.
Just kidding. It was plain, sweet more
and less, and everything, and good
enough, and fine as finest be.
Or anyway,
It went.
She had some things to say,
well-chosen, well-observed
in time well-spent. A well-turned ear
she had, an eye for detailed sweep, a mind
to weigh what's excellent, while noting
flaws and all to keep. She understood
a song, and so much else.
I took her readily, and didn't mind her
asking more. She'd won my high regard
with grace, by handling that one huge gaffe!
Unmeant, I'd slipped - we'd talked
of songs by genre, type, compare/contrast. So
when she asked for "slower one," unthought,
and showing off, I asked:
"You want a ballad or a lay?"
And froze. My words played back in mind
with too much gain. But she just laughed!
And shook her head.
"Your choice. But not too fast."
"Of course!" I said
in faint shock and relief,
to carry on
undead.
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