Blondie and The Six year old

This is very much a work in progress. I’m not sure how I want the stanza or the mood or anything for that matter. I was doing some imagery exercises and this game out of that, but there is a lot of work to be done on it.

Almost midnight,
Ten minutes till the Debbie Harry Interview.
mother is in bed
pressed against the boyfriend,
the one with the black beard, like a pirate’s.

The living room, my new bedroom,
holds the key to my mistress of music.
I crawl from the sheets, flannel,
pj’s spark blue and crack,
soft palms press against tweed plaid
couch, hard and rough on my skin,
but I’m young I can handle the couch.

White ghost feet, toes spread
to slip into the brown shag carpet
like sand slipping between my toes
and to my knees and hands
as silent as a cat on the
kitchen counter, I crawl
breathless to the black stereo.

The record player with the Am/FM radio.
I pinch the dial and carefully,
slowly, slowly,
turn the black metal knob.
The click is like bones cracking
and the rooms echos
like a scream into a cavern.
I lie still listening
to the sounds in the next
New boyfriend does not
find my behaviors cute
and does not spare the rod, but she is worth it.
Crickets orchestrate classical melodies from behind
sealed glass, but there is no other sound except the exhalation of the house and my breath.

I slide closer to the speaker,
the hiss and crack of airwaves
tickle the hairs in my ear
as I press my cheek into the
soft but scratchy fabric that
stretches like a band over the
speaker. It is like a seal that
separates her from me.
I know if I could peel back the fabric and climb inside that I
would fall into the studio, like
Alice fell into the rabbit hole,
I would fall to her white pumps
and she would kneel down to
smile at me
her platinum blonde shag
falling about her delicate cheekbones.
“Why hello. I’m Debra Harry. Aren’t you up
way past your bedtime?”

I close my eyes at the first sound of her voice
and fall asleep like
a content serpent around a hot stone.