to all the greats

to all the greats
by Gena Begley
needles and
like wires
and wine
pin pricks in
my heady heart
they say
that red house
over yonder
is filled with
a ghost
who sings the blues
like no body’s
your voice is dry
dry like that wine
that you bought when
you were broke and
thirstier than
you’ve ever been
when that hollow man
played his bass
and sang through his teeth
I thought I might
cry but
you held on
to me
just the way
you’re doing now
saying, baby
baby that’s why we moan
on that stage
so maybe dry wine
and dry cries
ain’t all that bad
and maybe
we’ll be all right
staying up nights
playing keys on backs
and beds
holding hands

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