No Other

Saturday afternoon

lying on the couch in a fog

crying.

Gene Clark,

my grandma loved you.

While spinning Mr. Tambourine Man

she called into my teenage room

'that's a Missouri boy singing 

on that doin's.'

Picked you up out of the blue 

she did,

and weren't you blue, Gene.

I don't believe I'll ever hear

the sound of heartache's strings

sing so true

sing so clear

sing so you.

So here we are,

on this couch

on this saturday afternoon

alone,

you and I.

Your songs always end in major

after a long drift through minor.

I believe you are my Orpheus 

wandering afraid into the underworld

searching for your only love

searching for your only life.

Gene Clark,

I have never heard a voice so afraid.

Lying on this couch

remembering your last hours

dying in a fog on a couch

alone

because you knew there was no other.

I know you're not dead

because you never lived,

only watched

and said

and left.