Ice skating rink is where they first met,
Time goes by – so many stories you could tell…
Flip through the songbook, this one they’d sing as a duet,
The guitars were shields; their coats of mail…
She was a West Coast wild spirit, pocket sized with dye
streaks and a big grin
He was a dream-filled neighborhood stray, doggone loyal,
barbed-wire thin
There’s still photos from the days of point-and-shoot
cameras
Of them talking at the bonfire as the elm tree dropped
samaras…
Her painted fingers pick melody on the strings, bead by
bead,
Like the jewelry in her spare time she would fix
While his hand played the rhythm, thumb then palm he’d
strum,
And together – their music mixed…
Stress channeled over the frets, tension by degrees warps
the neck
Environmental changes, untuned preparation and other things
Over time can mess with the sounds of the heartstrings
The rift probably started on a trip back home
Root cause isn’t spoken of, so still largely unknown…
Steve doesn’t get out much these days;
While Abby Lee, she now sings alone
Today she no longer plays,
He feels lost in a desert, wondering at his silent phone…
Those guitars have been well-used,
To their owners’ personal histories they’ve become fused;
Runners by nature, driven to roam,
Hoping to find a not-so-temporary home….
The kids grew up; they’re doing well,
Give their parents news by the occasional email
Shields may be broken now, but they’re mostly in one piece
Ice skating rink is where they first fell…
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