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.
