Eleanor Rigby, in the church where the stained glass weeps,
hums Jackie’s tremble to the pews’ empty seats;
velvet voice lifts the dust like a Sunday slow swing,
every cracked note a rosary, every breath a broken wing.
She calls the lonely by name, they shimmer and fade,
left-over heartbeats drumming in the cold colonnade.
Ah, look at all the lost believers—where do they all belong?
Eleanor keeps their tears in a jukebox of song.