box of jars

only you poems

heidi shira tannenbaum
The songs in the shop were 
songs with moons in them,
songs about waiting and forgetting and remembering.
Songs addressed to GIRL and ONLY YOU.
Only You was reading a crime novel,
an old paperback that sold for fifty cents.
The detective was shaken up after a close call
and had taken to the drink. The whole thing 
shuddered like a blouse on a line in a rainstorm.
A coat brushed against Only You.
The contact was as heavy as the burden
of someone loving Only You. 
This was a desolate place. The dame 
was the commanding type. Only You 
saw a constellation in the shape of a crustacean.
There was shuffle on a shelf nearby,
and, just before nine, the tape went quiet.