Flapper

Actors have it.
Why not the rest of us?

As the scientists say:
"There's always been something,"

though they meant Matter
created nor destroyed

not a mental source
to conjure tears
crocodilian or otherwise.

First it was
my grandma dying--
not the one who's truly deceased;
the one who's just a shell of herself.
Then it dawned on me
that she's been gone from us
for years now
and the body's only trembling
the aftershocks of death
the way that hair and nails
keep growing in the coffin.

For awhile I'd think of an Ex.
(For awhile An was The.)
There was one specific image
one twinkle of the eye, one braided hairstyle
an orange backpack for the weekend
and more often than not
a tight red tanktop.
That always made 'em roll.
It took a lot of sex and whiskey
to dig myself so low--
low enough to see
that it was never meant to be
and sure not what I thought it was.

But now it's a kid on Riverside Drive in Manhattan.
The sun's shining, it's early Halloween 2010.
His mother's too busy on her cell phone
to pay him much attention
even though he's dressed for the occasion
in a masochistic bird costume
with a phallic protrusion sticking straight up
from his head. The beak's swallowing his face
and his smile's slightly forced.
He flaps his little brown wings
at my girlfriend and me as we walk by
en route to my truck
parked safely in accordance
with Street Cleaning Regulations.
We try not to laugh for his sake
until we're out of earshot.
He's dressed so ridiculously yet has no idea.
His family will use photos as blackmail
later on in life. That pointless cone
at the top of his head will haunt him forever
like the thought that I won't someday
get to play the same joke on my offspring.

"But he was so happy."

"I know. That's why it's sad."

That's what I think of if I need to now.
God, if that kid only knew.



Currently reading:
"The Valley of Light" by Terry Kay.