Karaoke at the Artists’ Residency
Ok, not exactly like a story you dreamed then started forgetting
as soon as you stretched your mouth in a yawn and each word
tumbled into the stark bright of day’s dementia, but, never-
theless, somehow any sweet and clear half-note you ever
claimed in morning’s showers—yes, any—now trip
on the hot mist of memory, crack all ribs, and end up
far off-key and stranded in this place of friendly strangers
crooning their lungs out with mic and screen. Artists, photographers,
writers not in the outside world of tavern, but instead here in the donor-
funded upscale living room, where they (no shower background necessary)
throw back their heads and wail gloriously, not a glint or glimmer
of “Whose skin do I live in?” flashing in the chorus. And bravo,
kudos, and all prize nominations! What good is envy
when they belt out with such joy their favorite
“oldies” (separated from yours by twenty years) both so
unabashedly beautiful and exuberantly shattered with drunken
crescendos—each millennial apologizing for “advanced” age, while your real
tail-end-of-baby-boomer generation and wallflower membership politely goes
noticed but un-mentioned. And for this you are grateful: when you stumble
repeatedly—not from drink but from late-hour self-consciousness—
every one of them waves their arms, opens wide their throats
to bellow the lyrics boldly, graciously buoying your attempts
with camaraderie and the night’s call-and-response
of kindness—your own belated harmony
this off-kilter poem, all
you have to offer.
*
From The Archives: Published on This Day
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