Sorry about the bad verse I’ve committed
in your name, but you have an air of mystery.
Can I help it if you seem magic?   Distance
makes the heart fonder, everyone knows that.
Far as looks go,  jury’s out.  Only silver at
your best.  Gold?  Ha!  Red, orange, yellow
of pale lime just for parties.   Rest of the
time,  you’re verging on skim milk.  “Blue
john!”  Features are gray, but you are
really good with shadow. Nights when you
are able to get out, count on you to listen.
Most nights, we’re lucky if you are allowed
to shrug on a pale, skimpy nightgown, slip
into a wing of the stage and make yourself
small.  Still you loom large.  Doing it again, 
aren’t I.   Only going  to say this a thousand
times.   You’re magic, dammit.  Get used to it!

    (c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  April, 2010

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