I Grew Up In An Opera

Silence polluted the apartment
like smoke from my father’s cigars.
My mother made rare appearances
due to lengthy bookings in darkened rooms.
My uncle the doctor gave me candy
when he visited her.
The Rabbi said I needed to be patient.
I was nine; what is patience?
Every night
my father drank 2 shots of rye and read the paper
before he went to her room.
Her room. The Prima.

When he came out, he never saw me
standing outside the door.

I wanted to talk to the wizard;
Dorothy had it easy.

************************************************

Hey Blondie:

you were and are
amazing. Firstborn
Amerikansky,
with a boy’s name
whose genes for so
happy you started growing
and developing and were
too “big” for your age
so you wore mom’s clothes
and still thought you were
cute as you pranced around
wearing nothing but an apron,
while your baby brother laughed
and your mother cried.
You didn’t bother changing
as time moved around you;
you didn’t see the point
and still don’t. That’s why
I can still wear crazy barrettes
and thrift store treasures
that get missed by the
greater good. I know
you’re in charge!
Thank you for staying close
during all the hard times.
I’m sure that’s why
I can still laugh
with the best of them
and think a blue sky
or a day of rain is just
marvelous.
Yo cutie: Continue
to rock on.