crouching inside the juke box in her bullet bra?
Does time fit together like black and white checkered flooring,
and is Brenda Lee blue over a past life she cannot alter?
I would kiss Brenda Lee if she were not imprisoned
by the black edges
of phonograph records.
I would kiss her, though I am not the boy she longs for,
or a boy at all,
and I would give her the Coca-Cola clock
right off the wall as a cure for longing.
Why is Brenda Lee so sad?
If I could, I would gather photographs of fine days gone by,
arrange them in a photo mailer,
and address them to Brenda Lee,
inside the Wurlitzer,
for Camera FLASH! at Real Toads.