I’ll Guess I Didn’t Wake You

Usually, I’m in Madison right now, so it’s appropriate I should dream of you,
and you know how those dreams always shake me awake.

I say, “You know,” as if you somehow did,
seeing as I’ve never had a chance to tell you so.

You’re still dressed in the white blouse and brown, pleated slacks,
reminding me of Annie Hall, a classic “you” movie back then.

Again, I’m standing near the rear of the record store, a galaxy away,
making sense since we’re so far apart.

I call out, as I’ll do, but the music remains so loud you never hear me,
as you forever read the back of the Stones’ Some Girls cover.

You always stand tall in those stiletto heels
I never understood how you could wear for hours on end.

In them I remember you and I were nearly the same height
where we could always almost see eye to eye.

When I’ve tried to walk toward you, my feet are glued to the ground,
so stuck where I am, I reach out to you, this time with my left hand.

And I see that the three middle fingers have been amputated and sewn back on,
the three for fingering the strings of my upright bass, the one I play as I sing songs from then.

Unsure if I’ll ever be able to play again, I wiggle them awkwardly, which you can’t see,
and I wonder awake if I’ll ever have a chance to say I love you in a song.