We never had one single song we called
our own though you would sing me melodies —
strange, made-up punk rock ditties that enthralled
me with their amorous atrocities.
You sang of queers who fucked in Nazi camps,
of eggs averting birth to save the world,
of horror films where killers wore no pants
so they could run free. And though not the worst
part of our on-again off-again ways,
the latest loss of you stings me anew
as if a rare LP, worn by replays,
was lost or scratched beyond repair. It’s true
I know these songs by heart, sides A and B,
but who can play a solo symphony?
Stereo Story #522
Sonnet 33 1/3 is part of Drew’s book Infinity Standing Up