- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Self Portrait in Blue
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"I need to grow," was her song to me,
"Let go, Baby, and one day you will see
that I'm not the one, Babe, I'm not the one;
you can be sure that I'm not the one."
So how have you grown, Joan, and where are you now?
Is it bright city lights for you and champagne uptown?
You were the one, Babe, you were the one.
Sweet God help me, Babe, you were the one.
All things change, you went college bound
and I rode to the Army in a chartered Greyhound.
Day and night, thinking of you.
Twist, turn, how I burned thinking of you.
And how have you grown, Joan, and where are you now?
Is it penthouse suites for you and eider down?
You were the one, Babe, you were the one.
Sweet God help me, Babe, you were the one.
"Return To Sender" in your mother's neat hand,
written in ink to the left of the stamp.
What did I do, Babe, what did I do,
to be beaten like a dog for loving you?
So how have you grown, Joan, and where are you now?
Is it first-class flights for you and Bill Blass gowns?
You were the one, Babe, you were the one.
Sweet God help me, Babe, you were the one.
Portraits of pain in violets and blue.
MoMA wants my oils and I owe it to you.
Painting with words, my song's on the radio,
my fortune is made, but what I want to know:
How have you grown, Joan, and where are you now?
Is it Soho openings and cocaine downs?
Your were the one, Babe, you were the one.
Sweet God help me, Babe, you were the one.
You were the one, Babe, you were the one.
Sweet God help me, Babe, you were the one.
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