Well, my favorite food was hoagies that Martha brought from Walmart's.
Linda Barrett brought cut-up green apples which I'm gobbling up today, Adam, but by golly my ribs are hurting me.
Ken brought veggies and dip.
Judy, potato salad.
Truthfully, tho, I was just on bike and doing that red stretchy thing as I watched Florence and the Machine, who is all the rage.
We agreed to do anudder poetry anthology with Martha as editor. Am gonna get my three poems to her tonite.
Was it the iced coffee that's kept me awake?
Heck, no.
The morning began w the film noir Scandal Sheet - so suspenseful! - What? I said to Scott. THAT'S John Derek? Very young once.
Donna Reed looked good as did Broderick Crawford playing a hard-driving editor of The Express who's also a killer.
We love hearing Edwin Muller discuss the background details of the film.The guy on the extreme right is a once Pulitzer Prize winning reporter who ended up 'in the gutter.' The editor has no compunctions about killing him in cold blood.
Scott and I watched 90 minutes of Ken Burns' Vietnam. Since he's on vaca this was the first time he's ever watched it.
It takes a lot out of me to watch, I said. There was a doctor who was captured by the Viet Cong. His boots were removed so his feet were rubbed raw as he walked for a month in the jungle with his captors.
Earlier today, Scott and I went to the Glencairn Museum. W/o my camera I felt lost. Read an earlier post about the museum.
A TOUR OF GLENCAIRN MUSEUM
RIGHT HERE IN OUR OWN BACKYARD
In the sweltering heat, Victoria
in a floor length green gown
soft as a luna moth wing,
opened the door for us.
Welcome, she said, as we walked
up to the desk. We've got free
tickets, I said, from the library
which entitled us to wear long
ribbons that read 2:30 tour.
We stood in the Great Hall of the
former home of the Pitcairns, everything
once theirs, the ceiling high as the
Sistine, the carpets below us, fresh
and new, after thousands, yes, thousands,
stood upon it.
Doreen in fancy dress was our leader.
Not a Pitcairn, this woman knew
everything, as we do when a place
incites our passions.
Teak, a wood that breathes and wants your
touch, makes up the banisters. If you
felt like rubbing your cheek along it,
you must stop yourself.
Roomfuls of artifacts. How we gazed
amazed that an impression of the Sphinx
was here. Who? The Sphinx.
A tiny set-up like a puppet stage showed
how The Importants were embalmed. I nudged
a fellow and said, Looky here, how the
legs of the embalming table are made to
look like gazelles.
An embalming cloth hung on the wall. If I dared
I would have rubbed my oily hands that only this
morning ate my egg and cheese omelet out on the
lawn chair and would have swiped it from the wall.
Every step we took was followed by a camera.
Claustrophobic? The tiny elevator, made by Otis,
fit four people inside. Doreen referred to Scott, my
princely companion, as my security guard.
We shot up the elevator to the top of the roof.
We sat down on movie-director canvas chairs
while her encyclopedic knowledge set off
thoughts of our own.
Off in the distance was Philadelphia
looking sweet as a picture-postcard. And there
on the screen door was a stink bug.
You had to laugh as you stood outside on the deck
wondering what it would be like if you thought of
yourself as Icarus with his wax wings, plunging
head first into the parking lot straight onto
Scott's Wonder Bread white car.
***
DANCING IN THE MENS' LOCKER ROOM
With fresh eyes I saw once again the hallway
Ed Quinn painted for me. Bright turquoise,
it leaves me breathless, and makes me
wanna dance.
I summon my dance partner of long ago.
Luis Aparicio, short stop for the White Sox,
a little guy, wiry, with soft hands
he lotioned up after each game.
How we danced after the Locker Room emptied out.
He'd lift me high in the air, with my pink toenails
and ruby red nails, twirl me about like a high pop ball
in the infield, then gently lower me to the floor.
Exhausted, we'd celebrate with Diet Coke.
In unison, we'd let out enormous burps
Should I look him up? Still alive at 83.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment