—AND YOU, YOU’RE PRETTY AS A PICTURE, YET I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME

  

The Backup Singers

 

Almost 65 now, I’m told, 

too much frosting, 

or not enough, 

who’s the true judge 

of such things? 

But at the family 

gathering,

the Littles flit and 

knock about, 

their parents (my children) 

oblivious but aware 

of everything-- 

my tremors and intake,

the rise and fall of 

days and years

flashing by--

slathering their faces with it,

a beautiful mockery. 

Back when I was 

an uncertain cloud,

there was a party, 

much like this one,

where the Old Littles  

also gathered behind 

the egg-shaped table

like a sinful choir, 

named as such 

by the man blowing 

out candles on

his frosted cake, 

smoke scissoring 

the terse air 

like a final threat 

or promissory note

written in smoke--

we were never sure which

until the last bottle 

bled out, 

when one of us 

would sing again,

a solo, everything

he demanded to hear,

staring at his belt 

and tarnished buckle 

the entire time,

its stem either 

a divining rod or

red hot needle,

depending upon how long 

the note was held.