-Substance-filled-

The fading LP cover

Has her standing defiantly elegant

In a gown of gold lamé.

His nickname, heavily indented

Into its upper-right corner in pencil

Attests to its ownership.

I imagine something of a heaven—

That my father is smoking a Chesterfield,
Inhaling its smoke without consequence,

That his kid brother, Armand, is no longer shaking
In a central nervous system of gelatin with intrusive Parkinson's,

And that my early friend, second baseman,
Is lacing his spikes on the stairs to his porch

Across the street from the third base line.

Maybe they visit one another on holidays

Drinking to each other's good fortune, making the young
Girls swoon the way they did in the neighborhood of the living.

My young father looked sharp in his basic-issue khakis.

Starched. Bloodless. Lucky,

The way a World-War was seen

Through the eyes of 1941 Minneapolis.
  

I’d like to think there’s a reason
To search for the meaning of things—

That we reach for the missing beauties—

That we bring to the table, elements
Notated from the commonness.

I imagine something of a heaven;

That Julie London, poured into an evening
Gown of gold lamé

Is singing the late supper show at the Galaxy Lounge—

That at the cocktail tables between sets

She's asking around

About a young G.I.'s situation.