You ask of me who I might be,
As if there were only one me.
Now that's quite the question when I'm still digesting
The fact that you're talking to me.

My past is a bad memory.
I'm so glad you weren't there to see
That I've just come from hell and I know it too well
And you sure look like heaven to me.

Well, I'm losing my cool
And I'm trying not to drool,
As I stand on this stage all alone
And I pray through my mask,
Is it too much too ask
That this world throw this poor dog a bone?

You're the first girl I've met since my fall
Who could possibly matter at all,
And it's hell trying to make you while struggling to shake off
This impulse to get down and crawl.

But this pain, don't I know it,
Has made me a poet
And I'm sure I could get next to you.
But I'm feeling so lame
Playing this strange waiting game
Like a chess player behind by a move.

So I'm forced to let you talk away
While I try to make suave repartée.
And when hit with a query, I say something cheery
Implying that there's far more to say.
And so I will wait
'Til I've insinuated
Myself into your life one day.
One day…

© 1977, 2000 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.