by Nick Jaina

Eleanor, you work the pedals
I will try my best to steer this damn thing home
your mouth is full of precious metals
mine is full of words I've stolen out of poems

in the electrocuted air
that queer and sultry summer air
on a new highway
on a new highway
August isn't yours, Eleanor

Eleanor, your precious prose
doesn't quite match up with my translation
all the words are plagues of crows
that never come to roost back in the fire station

all that you have ever said
all that I have ever heard
could be placed beside
could be placed beside
those who took the fall, Eleanor

Eleanor, I'll turn the lights out
but you must promise not to run and grab your crutch
they bleach the bones, they take the fight out
but there is something deeper they could never touch

all the poets and their theft
are the only heroes I have left
when they finally die, when they finally die
I'll have to trust myself, Eleanor

Eleanor, you'd have to think
if there's a God he'd want us to have fun and drink
and there's no shame in the last call
baby doll, there's no shame no shame at all

when you feel it in your spine
and you feel it in your teeth
and the words aren't there
and the words aren't there
don't feel like you're a thief, Eleanor

© 2008 Nick Jaina