So, speaking of that David Wilcox song you posted [rock on by the way]. In my free-spirited thinking of random ass-ociations, I was immediately cast into a longing to read a poem I loved by Gary Soto. I will now share it with you. :) MAGNETS I click the plastic faces of kewpie dolls/ Together ñ they want to kiss but canít./ The magnets behind their heads have died/ Out, and wouldnít pull up iron fillings/ From the loosest dirt, let alone show/ Affection, smack lips or clunk heads/ And make my bashful nephew say,/ Ah, thatís for sissies./ They stare at each other,/ Shyly with hands behind their backs,/ Black lash of youth, pink cheeks of first time./ But itís over for them. The magnets/ Have died out. I drink my coffee/ And think of old girlfriends,/ How we too clunked heads together,/ Kissed and clunked until the pull of love/ Stopped and we just looked./ Sometimes magnets fall from our heads,/ Settle in our hips. Beds are ruined/ This way. Books tumble from crowded shelves/ When couples clunk waists together,/ With the women looking at ceilings,/ Men at loose hair on pillows,/ And then itís the other way around./ But magnets die out. They grow heavy,/ These stones that could sharpen knives/ Or bring faces together for one last kiss./ For years I thought iron lived forever,/ Certainly longer than love. Now I have doubts./ The kewpie dolls, set on starched doilies/ On my grandmotherís television,/ Smile but donít touch. The paint is flaking,/ Dust is a faint aura of loss. Grandmother loved/ Her husband for five decades, and still does,/ Poor grandpa who is gone. They worked/ Side by side in the fields, boxed raisins,/ Raised children in pairs. Now grandmother/ Wants to die but doesnít know how. / Her arms are frail, her eyes of cataract/ Canít hold a face. Hijo, hijo/ She says, and looks over my shoulder./ Itís blinding wisdom to see her on the edge/ Of her couch. The magnet is in her feet,/ Ready to gather up the earth.