The Touchstone

In the kitchen we sat on Sunday mornings,
toes tipping icy metal-legged chairs,
radio balanced atop the Frigidaire
forever playing Benny Goodman’s Goodbye.

Of course I could hum that from memory –
clarinets and cork, sorrow and bacon breezing out the back door –
always naming the songs for sweet-natured amusement.

She, too, was made a misfit like me one fine Sunday morning,
so we danced on the soft brown Linoleum tiles,
edged with Pine Sol and prayers,
singing I Feel Shitty and giggling.

Because I was funny, even then –
and not pretty –
a torchy feral animal,
black fingernails and neck,
The Little Princess rubber-banded in my Benji backpack with matted fur.

Mouthing the words
– You can’t live forever you can’t live forever you can’t live forever –
I had already realized that,
read it somewhere even.

So when I now hear the baby bird
incessantly chirping on the back porch,
my metaphoric reminder of failure,
I mouth those words again.

And think of standing in a long hallway,
cheap two-toned green rubber bathing cap flowers pinching my reddish curls underneath,
Grey-pilled white sweatshirt, clear bubbly black letters
– Try it you’ll like it.

Chicklet-white teeth are tiny daggers of truth
against my berry brown face,
cheeks fuzzy with glistening white lanugo
and a demanding hand on hip jutting out past the lauan door.

Of course you’ll like it.
– Of course I like it.
I knew it then,
and I knew it later –

In a borrowed car in a sudden blizzard,
rearview mirror popped off from the cold,
I could feel it in my toes,
like the metal legs on those kitchen chairs.

Boys of Summer muted by soft snowfall
and a reminder never to be vulgar –
overruled.
And I know it now.

It’s the only thing that truly barbs.
– You can’t live forever you can’t live forever you can’t live forever –
I like it
and always will.