Grecian Temples

[y66]

Grecian Temples

 

by George Bilgere

 

Because I'm getting pretty gray at the temples,

which negatively impacts my earning potential

and does not necessarily attract vibrant young women

with their perfumed bosoms to dally with me

on the green hillside,

I go out and buy some Grecian Hair Formula.

 

And after the whole process, which involves

rubber gloves, a tiny chemistry set,

and perfect timing, I look great.

I look very fresh and virile, full of earning potential.

But when I take my fifteen-year-old beagle

out for his evening walk, the contrast is unfortunate.

Next to me he doesn't look all that great,

with his graying snout, his sort of faded,

worn-out-dog look. It makes me feel old,

walking around with a dog like that.

 

It's not something a potential employer,

much less a vibrant young woman with a perfumed bosom

would necessarily go for. So I go out

and get some more Grecian Hair Formula—

Light Brown, my beagle's original color.

And after all the rigmarole he looks terrific.

I mean, he's not going to win any friskiness contests,

not at fifteen. But there's a definite visual improvement.

The two of us walk virilely around the block.

 

The next day a striking young woman at the bookstore

happens to ask me about my parents,

who are, in fact, long dead, due to the effects of age.

They were very old, which causes death.

But having dead old parents does not go

with my virile, intensely fresh new look.

 

So I say to the woman, my parents are fine.

They love their active lifestyle in San Diego.

You know, windsurfing, jai alai, a still-vibrant sex life.

And while this does not necessarily cause her

to come dally with me on the green hillside, I can tell

it doesn't hurt my chances.

 

I can see her imagining dinner

with my sparkly, young-seeming mom and dad

at some beachside restaurant

where we would announce our engagement.

 

Your son has great earning potential,

she'd say to dad, who would take

a gander at her perfumed bosom

and give me a wink, like he used to do

back when he was alive, and vibrant.

 

from The White Museum. © Autumn House Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission at The Writer's Almanac.

[Winstonm]

It's not the Grecian temples I worry about but worn out Swedish meatballs.

[y66]

For Winston:

 

The Old Age of Nostalgia

 

by Mark Strand

 

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined

future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or

a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced

that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was

charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and

one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind-

loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the

high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so

many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies

in the perfumed heat of summer night.

 

from Almost Invisible. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2012. Reprinted with permission at The Writer's Almanac.

[Winstonm]

For Winston:

 

The Old Age of Nostalgia

 

by Mark Strand

 

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined

future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or

a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced

that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was

charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and

one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind-

loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the

high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so

many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies

in the perfumed heat of summer night.

 

from Almost Invisible. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2012. Reprinted with permission at The Writer's Almanac.

 

I was thinking more along the lines of: There once was a girl from Nantucket...