I can’t get her out of my head. Like an
ice pick jabbed over and over
into my hippocampus, she’s
burrowed into my consciousness. Those lips,
that mullet framing a face already running to fat.
Years later latex pants make
sausages of her legs. She’s
the girl of my dreams, circa 1974, now
in early 1980 singing her biggest hit, her worst song,
duetting on Italian television with a guy whose muttonchops
are probably more familiar with English
than he is. But
there she is, little girl face, this voice that can
burnish steel, can melt the paint off a car,
siren song of so many coke dreams, hash reveries.
Drummers are the “Q” keys of rock music.
I would be her drummer, fold her cellulite
in, zip up that latex.