A day b'twixt
The telephone begged me to believe
that this was not just another day,
that Charles was in the labyrinth
of befuddled hopes and menacing dreams.
The plaintive and melancholic call
of the winds carried no music
from New Orleans; but the knell
did sound once or twice - you know,
I was busy with Rubik's cube then.
I knew he would jump over the fence and
drop in with Springsteen on his lips -
Streets of Philadelphia he cares about
more than me. 'You lousy bastard', I'd say
with a wink; then we'd make love.
But nothing stirred, no sound - not a whisper,
even. Darkness crept in and I was too
doleful not to relent. Tomorrow Rossdale'd
be no more and Stefani'd cry to death.
I know! And I'm not jealous?!
