melodies

It was a quintessential teenaged summer
with hair the color of wheat
masquerading as something light and nordic
and very, very marilyn

and melodies picked out on the string of a guiter
where she liked to walk

it was full of dostoevsky and
teenaged nihilism
violins and deep green lakes
that failed to sparkle like the shallow end
of a clean, chlorinated kiddie pool

and those melodies, those melodies
a path through blue eyes and strong hands and piano keys

it was cliche,
a swan dive into
classic pop rock and shimmering strawberies
sprinkled with sugar

it was defined by the poetry
of sylvia and dylan and mr. lennon

there were good-byes and cheerful wine coolers
and dancing on water
there was tragedy and cellos
and one
beautiful
entirely cliche
'all that i've got left' kind of kiss

it was defined by the rhythem and the meter and the maddness
that made the great ones
so
great

it was defined by a series,
of teenaged cliches
by wheat colored hair masquerading as something
light and nordic

by melodies picked out on the strings of a guitar
and all the tragedy of a russian novel and cup of black coffee