I’m searching for the chalk
in a warped wooden drawer.

I’m contemplating a quick plunge
into icy waters

if I can find an opening
this time of year

while the debate over fresh
or frozen rages on.

This craving for peas,
I respond.

I always loved George best,
even in 1967. My 3-year-old heart.

A quieter charisma. The fame.
Whose? The anxiety. Whose?

No pill to swallow
to cure this rock ‘n’ roll

roadkill recording—
obsessively hitting repeat.

If you had done a better job
teaching me those chords

(I got G, why not C?),
my guitar would gently weep

instead of this
unstrung, unwieldy instrument

I rattle to whisper

George not John or Ringo,
George not Paul,

George not you,
the other Paul.

My 3-year-old heart,
I always wanted to believe.

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