by Cliff Saunders
Springsteen’s song about the lightin every room of a romancegets to me squarely in the gut.It’s good therapy for the foolwhose main worry is rescuingEarth from an asteroid.I meet drag queens on beach avenueson hot summer nights and singto their knees about their own fire.I’m like a demanding hostesswho talks too much about herself.Deep down, I appreciate lipswhen they turn a bit cloudy. I’m open to the sensuous touchof a finger around the curvesof my hair. Now I keep watchover my flock of voiceswith the same feeling. My passionis the same as a pianist’s, as one yardof red ribbon. Still going strong,I whistle a little deeper, a little darker.