Sandra and Tom
Her eyes were wayward,
Chapstick tube attached to lip,
A bruise to the right of her left eye:
Some souvenir and that was it.
Her songs were nervy;
Textbooks stored in a lost nook.
Sometimes I'd find her, smoke and a book,
Her hazy room kept candlelit.
Her jokes were taboo,
The tattoo on her back, too.
Rice cakes smothered in peanut butter:
Snacks for trade to save some money.
Jaded sense of time.
Rhymes rewind and blur with wine.
She'd try to collect her thoughts again;
I'd say, "Give it a try, honey."
Buried in the earth,
Make-up painted her up worse
Than bruises in her hearse.
And I can almost hear the verse
That she forgot, sung in reverse:
Whispers, "Sandra was a nurse,
Her pockets always full of crackers.
Should have hid them in her purse
And handed them to her attacker.
But now she's gone, so are the doctors
Standing solemly bewildered,
Having no one to give orders,
No one to give shots to children."
She was sort of such a songstress,
Guitar pick hanging as a necklace.
Her hair, disheveled.
Lashes reaching for the sky,
Heavy mascara framed her eyes;
Funeral home failed, but they tried.
Pretty dresses, all
Outfits sad to see sitting
In a box marked "X-Mas Ornaments",
Left to dry-rot 'til dragged outside.
No donations. Names taken
In the roster, let them know
You'd free time enough to show and so
They'll remember you remembered.
But they won't recall
The way she danced, all drunk and
Kept it loose, kept it light with the guys:
Mistletoe-absent Decembers.
Where could she have gone?
Could she have penned a hit song?
Was I just always wrong?
Her life was just too long
For it to happen all along
But I can almost hear her song
She sang, "Tom was not a man,
Though writers always wrote of him like
They liked him and liked his plans
To try to make the most of his life.
But Tom was wrong, his ideas squandered:
Wasted plans to marry a wife,
Make a living, not just wander
Out of life, no legacy left."
Too bad her life and songs turned fruitless.
Chapstick tube attached to lip,
A bruise to the right of her left eye:
Some souvenir and that was it.
Her songs were nervy;
Textbooks stored in a lost nook.
Sometimes I'd find her, smoke and a book,
Her hazy room kept candlelit.
Her jokes were taboo,
The tattoo on her back, too.
Rice cakes smothered in peanut butter:
Snacks for trade to save some money.
Jaded sense of time.
Rhymes rewind and blur with wine.
She'd try to collect her thoughts again;
I'd say, "Give it a try, honey."
Buried in the earth,
Make-up painted her up worse
Than bruises in her hearse.
And I can almost hear the verse
That she forgot, sung in reverse:
Whispers, "Sandra was a nurse,
Her pockets always full of crackers.
Should have hid them in her purse
And handed them to her attacker.
But now she's gone, so are the doctors
Standing solemly bewildered,
Having no one to give orders,
No one to give shots to children."
She was sort of such a songstress,
Guitar pick hanging as a necklace.
Her hair, disheveled.
Lashes reaching for the sky,
Heavy mascara framed her eyes;
Funeral home failed, but they tried.
Pretty dresses, all
Outfits sad to see sitting
In a box marked "X-Mas Ornaments",
Left to dry-rot 'til dragged outside.
No donations. Names taken
In the roster, let them know
You'd free time enough to show and so
They'll remember you remembered.
But they won't recall
The way she danced, all drunk and
Kept it loose, kept it light with the guys:
Mistletoe-absent Decembers.
Where could she have gone?
Could she have penned a hit song?
Was I just always wrong?
Her life was just too long
For it to happen all along
But I can almost hear her song
She sang, "Tom was not a man,
Though writers always wrote of him like
They liked him and liked his plans
To try to make the most of his life.
But Tom was wrong, his ideas squandered:
Wasted plans to marry a wife,
Make a living, not just wander
Out of life, no legacy left."
Too bad her life and songs turned fruitless.