Discarding. Cleaning. Sorting. Unpleasant, tedious tasks, true, but sometimes, among the dust, the dirt, the ancient bank statements, the Post-Its that no longer stick, one finds jewels. Yes, indeedy.
An example, this 1950s picture of my parents, snapped long before I arrived. It's always been a favorite. And it inspired a poem I wrote several years ago. Yep, I am going to share it with you, dear readers. I am. Allow me this self-indulgence. Please.
You may tell me what you think. You may. In fact, I beseech you. I beg you. I plead. Divulge. Unless, of course, you hate the poem. Then you can keep those thoughts to yourself. I don't want to know. I don't. Because I am sensitive. Tender. Vulnerable. Absolutely. Anyway, you remember what your momma said. Right? And you always do what your momma said. I know you do. Yes, ma'am. You bet. But Billie Holiday said it, too. If you can't say anything real nice . . . . Oh. Heck. Ignore her if you wish. Be brutal. If you must. If you must.
'56
Snapshot
They stand
Together
In black and white.
He is lean.
A strand of linguine
In faded jeans,
And scuffed boots,
Hair as springy as risen dough.
She is curvy.
A bottle of Youth-Dew perfume.
Her smile is radiant,
As full of promise,
As a red-leafed shoot on a rosebush.
His arms envelop her.
His chin rests on her shoulder.
Her chin tilts skyward,
a haughty falcon
atop the Chrysler Building.
She is
Defiant.
Her eyes flash:
I
will choose
who I love.
His grin boasts:
I am the cat.
I have the canary.
They stand.
Together.
They dare the future.
Black and white.
And gray.
(And soon, Ms. Still Life In Buenos Aires, I will tell all I know about self-tanning lotions. Because you asked. And I will deliver. Soon.)
