hidden infatuation

salty marimbas
that don't amount to much
on the shelves of bossa novas
that never happened
not even in the imagination
of Isaac Azimov
or any of his thoughtless thoughts
the ones he never wrote of
the ones he hid under his bed
and only pulled out
when the day was done
the side burns just so
the slacks hung so
prim and proper by the bed
on a hanger that wishes
it was not just Azimov
but rather the thoughts
he never thought
and the words never used to express them