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Poem

how clever a peck on the cheek, a kiss on the head
a hug with a boa constriction for the parents i love.

how cruel this fate of social isolation, to stunt the breath
of this illusion, that i might have them more and more times.

the kiss off of a mother’s day and all things pretty and wrinkled.
a jolly show of faces — did i once think the actors could slink

through a small or large screen. we haggle with time, dressing
up in effects, wrapping backgrounds, like furs, around caricatures

of ourselves — astronauts, cross-dressers, punk. my mom
holds a very dry martini — six olives on a skewer in empty glass.

we kin do amuse one another and the claustrophobic togetherness
where a normal situation would have us wandering, appetizering,

sidewinder-chitchatting, fobbing the keys of a remote control,
checking seconds and minutes for appropriateness of slipping

out the door — that of course, for bored spouses, who love
the in and out of screen time and beg to screen all holidays this way

while a bored housewife wants for the drive that spurs one on
toward childhood — a link between life and death, playful

joy of trinkets and melodious voices soothed by the setting years;
the wrinkle of time sells all anger, judgment, unkindness —

the baggage that weighs down elephants, the infantile crawl
of bondage. Now the rocking of Brumbies, snail’s pace of sunset

grace of a gray nest, cascading shoulders, ears out of tune
but pure-gold’s love — the plinking strings of a plentitude heart.

Mom and Dad cheer with glistening glasses, their merry martinis
marvel at their wealth — one olive, three olivettes grin at them.

5/11/2020
Non-rhyming couplets

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