The squeal pierced my teenage ears 

from the secondhand amp in my tiny bedroom

holding the duct-taped cord and mic,

I was Ann Wilson in an arena,

bathed by a sea of faces 

 

Bright lights cascaded down on me, 

my hair shimmered as if weaved in glitter, 

the ground rumbled from boisterous feet

and I sang—to him

 

The boy, with shoulder-length locks, 

an awkward smile, and legs the length of my body 

hidden under bell bottom jeans 

 

I belted out my love and desire,

for his leather covered arms to be wrapped around me 

God, I wish I knew his touch

 

His steel-toed boots made him appear unbreakable.

but on the inside, he was a sentimental poet

 

I sang to the sea green eyes that pierced my soul

I sang to—my Magic Man