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Margot Wagner Plays Guitar, and All I Can Do is Jot Lame Poetry on a Newspapersitting on my hands, sitting on my hopes, sitting upside down wrongly if it would keep my heart from thumping so embarrassingly loud. Surely, she can't hear. But I can. So I fidget and I fuss, I blink hard in silent frustration, amazed at the boy I've now become. As she spills her soul, I work small miracles to contain mine. I imagine her lost in my sad eyes, as does every other man there in his, but our cold eyes will only get more so. I wish mine would turn bluer as reality leaves me here, shivering. Bluer, bluest, yet blue all the same; I'm still plain everywhere but in my head, where she beholds me and falls a little herself, where my own eyes change their shade just for a moment. all works on this page Copyright 2002 by Paul Ryan .
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