Poetry Corner for November 29, 2008

On Becoming a Kennedy: A Poem

There’s a truck
That comes down Jenny’s block
But instead of sharpening scissors and knives
It sells fake old stories about pots. (FOSAPS)

Friendly Milly Potus is the driver
To call her a fraudulent Chinese
Would be a misternomer.
When he drives down the street
She greets everyone he meets
With a “Gesundheit” or a (hearty) “Bon Appetit.”
He is our local Nostradamus.

While playing Santa Claus one afternoon she turned me into a Kennedy.
It was against my will.
Mostly argyle, that clan.
Never been a fan.
Their chewy nougat centers seem indigestible to most members
of our local credit union – despite their many fine presidents.

But the pros of being a Kennedy
soon outnumbered the cons.
(That’s the family swan song.)
Newsprint verses about a worse fate
Dog their days.
And so they stay away from B. Dalton stores.

Meat ground up by the media mill
Turns their every sneeze into a national conversation.
Every fill-up of gas becomes a the diversification of a fundamental conundrum
Reminding one of fluids partially hidden by nice hair.
But doors fly open when nice hair approaches Corporate America.
And that was my downfall.

Asparagus tips, oxtail soup,
Pot Au Feu, cantaloupe
Sir Lion consumed them all in duplicate.
Con gusto, gratuitously – every bit!
Not taking time out.
For everyone wanted to dine with a Kennedy
unhaunted by required memory.
Four spoons, sometimes five were required
By these amazing gourmets – on fire
To Basque in the lite of this new Kennedy elite

Language was soon a way of being for me.
It was a way of being loved by the Enemies of Christmas!

Finding love meant shooting up to 800 pounds.
I was a gorilla among antelopes.
Finally, there wasn’t a podium that could hold me
Every platform I stood upon collapsed.
(Just like this poem.)

And all because of a sweater.