I confess that you
once made everything old
and beautiful
in an incensed church
or long nap on a rainy afternoon
sort of way
and the rusted brass rings
of this world
were no longer
worth reaching for
only the long stretching
past held interest
as you chained me to
the pillars of your yesteryear
and everything was about
ancient relics
tiny trinkets, rings, stones,
Bach Partitas or buckets
of wishes to live
elsewhere
no place in particular
just anywhere but in
the graveyard backyard
that living had become
for you…for us
and only Fred twirling Ginger
brought a sunken smile
to your once stunning
face that in it’s hey girl
hey day
made my father
give up his dream of writing
the great American novel
in exchange for marrying
his Latin American destiny
in all its tempestuous
disastrous glory
More at http://www.ivanjenson.com/.