For Part 1, scroll down.
Does black make you look fatter or thinner on camera?
Breathe.
I should have read my poems out loud.
Breathe.
I should have practiced an introduction.
Breathe.
I should have worn a T-shirt, “Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Poem.”
Breathe.
Hell, I should have worn those damn control top panties.
Breatheeeeeee. I think I'm going to be sick.
People gather around. Everyone is waiting. What do I do? What do I do? What the F... do I do?
I take a deep breath and begin the way people at readings are supposed to begin. “Ahem. Ah...is this mic working? Can you hear me? “
“You sound great,” yells my Buddhist Buddy from the back of the room.
“Hello. I'm Meg and I’m going to read from my latest collection of poems, ‘There’s a Reading on Love, So I Gotta Write Something. Quick.’”
Somewhat acceptable laughter. God, or Enlightened One, I might just be able to pull this thing off.
Ahem...
Ahem...
The Dream Love of My Life
You see me after the show
and you want me,
with my long blond hair,
my unshaven legs,
my thrift shop shoes,
my English lit. degree,
the Midwestern way I say pop.
There’ll be no more rich girls, no more
British models, no beauties from Latin America.
I am the genuine article you’ve been looking for.
You kiss this genuine article,
with your lovely, luscious, thick, fat, luscious lips.
It’s the first kiss. The last kiss. The only kiss.
And then you whisper
a lovely, luscious, thick, fat, luscious secret.
And this genuine article knows
who Ruby Tuesday really is.
and you want me,
with my long blond hair,
my unshaven legs,
my thrift shop shoes,
my English lit. degree,
the Midwestern way I say pop.
There’ll be no more rich girls, no more
British models, no beauties from Latin America.
I am the genuine article you’ve been looking for.
You kiss this genuine article,
with your lovely, luscious, thick, fat, luscious lips.
It’s the first kiss. The last kiss. The only kiss.
And then you whisper
a lovely, luscious, thick, fat, luscious secret.
And this genuine article knows
who Ruby Tuesday really is.
I look up. No one is leaving. Yeessss!
I read the other two poems and guess what? The applause is somewhat acceptable.
The poets who follow read stuff about lesbian love, radar love, and Zsa Zsa Gabor, leaving more than a few confused looks on people’s faces. Yeessss!
The reading ends and people begin to mingle. Bookclub Friend 1 comes up to me, a plate of blue tortilla chips in hand, “Yours were the best,” she says, stuffing a handful in her mouth.
Bookclub Friend 2 joins us, nibbling a brownie. “Yeah. I loved the one about The Dancer.”
Bookclub Friend 3 heads our way. “Doesn’t your husband mind you writing about your ex-boyfriend?" she says. "And hey, I didn't know they had desserts."
“What are you all talking about?” I grab a few tortilla chips as suddenly I'm starving.
“The poem about going to the show,” says Playgroup Friend 2
“The luscious lips poem,” says Playgroup Friend 1.
“Doesn’t your husband mind you writing about The Dancer?” asks Playgroup Friend 3.
"Dancer? Hahaha...hackhackhack...ahemmm. That wasn’t about my ex-boyfriend,"
I swipe the napkin she's holding and cover my mouth. "That was about Mick Jagger."
“Mick Jagger?”
“Oh.”
“Really?”
My ex-boyfriend, The Dancer, AKA the Chauffeur Dude, was my first real, 3D, breathing, erection-prone love. His real name will not be revealed, but in Greek it means “Lover of Horses.”
My ex-boyfriend, The Dancer, AKA the Chauffeur Dude, was my first real, 3D, breathing, erection-prone love. His real name will not be revealed, but in Greek it means “Lover of Horses.”
The Dancer looks like a Jewish Tom Cruise, and he has big lips. Which I guess explains the confusion over the poem. That, and the line about the show. Being in a modern dance company, The Dancer's performed in hundreds of them.
We met in a modern dance class at the university (an appealing substitute for physical education). At the time he’d been in pre-dentistry. “You’re crazy if you do anything else but dance,” I’d told him.
We had a passionate romance (we did it in the library, we did it in the museum in behind a Rodin statue, we did it in a metro park at dawn, and were hard pressed to explain to our parents what exactly it was we were doing when the park ranger phoned them after finding our abandoned car in the lot).
But after four years of doing it in the Midwest, he took a gig with a dance company in Toronto. I did write poems about him. But none that I’d ever read in public.
My Spousal Unit hands me a glass of Chablis and heads, you guessed it, back to the food table.
Buddhist Buddy approaches, “Good work. I really like the poem about your dancer friend.”
“That wasn’t about The Dancer,” I say. What's with these people?
“It was about Mick Jagger. "You know, of the Stones? The Rolling Stones?” But of course, not being into popular culture, she doesn’t know The Rolling Stones from The Flaming Lips.
“You mean that poem, The Dream Love of Your Life, wasn’t about The Dancer?
“No. It was about a rock star.
"Huh?"
"ROCK STAR."
“Are you sure?”
The crowd clears out and the Unit heads home to relieve the sitter. I stroll around and take a look at the paintings. As I peruse the gallery I find I’m happy.
Today I am a poet.
Today I am more than a Harried Woman who tries, most often unsuccessfully, to potty train her two-year-old son.
Today. I. Am. A. Poet.
Just then my cell rings. “Hey hon,” the Unit says, “Can you pick up some diapers and a gallon of milk on your way home?
POP (the sound of my fantasy life breaking)
"Oh," he adds, "nice poem about The Dancer."
Happy Valentine's Weekend All. May you always know who it is you are writing a poem about.
*******************************************
Posted at Humor-Blogs.
