Buddy Holly’s glasses
frame your blue agate eyes
today’s oil paint hid way below
the cringing chewed, edges of your nails
your curls more Van Gogh then Holly--
a knife painter.
Waves froth your crown
strands behind each ear –
a handlebar mustache
Nights sees your Cheshire grin
at coffee houses – acoustic tones rise
as you bounce me on your knee
once, you framed me in sepia—nude
mused, you flamed.
Where are you now Lothario,
artist and sage?
In Seattle reborn on a canvas stretcher
or strumming on a stage?