Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Old Movies

Did you think I could ever be dejected,
pissed, and thinking someone has my head
on a platter for having lived less than you,
you of I-Pads, I-Phones, and Plasma TVs?
No, not me, not after
Gary Grant, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe,
thick-carpeted, wall-sconced theaters,
and Chris the usher’s flickering lead
to our seats during the amateur night,
just before the feature film,
comedy, drama, horror,
not making any difference,
for our public refuge,
as long as the reels rolled,
quite unlike the screens of
cineplexes, T.V., or DVR, because
I wiped my mother’s tears
after Carole Lombard as if
she had stood in good relation to her
and mine after James Dean
whom I had never met.
So, for me, a torch of promise exists
in old movies, and when
the last curtain lifts and lights
go off, you can be sure of this:
I shall not shiver with cold and fright,
I shall not disturb the universe, and
I shall enjoy the last movie I’ll see.