Six Olives On a Skewer In Empty Glass

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