Ode to a crumpled sheet

And she walks into the room,

with a guitar on her hip,

and when she turns to look at you,

you're nervous, do you need another sip?

She's dressed for the world,

for them to look and to look again,

her silk stocking and careless heels,

her song, your song, will it rain?

A cup of coffee or another cigarette,

your sketch or my broken line,

your vision or my headache,

why not another glass of wine?

We're drawn and not written,

we're born on a crumpled sheet,

we search for just beat and tea,

in an hour, shall we meet?

The curtain is drawn,

the telephone rings,

someone helpless, someone fixed,

broken wings, summer brings, tired kings?