Hall of Famer

Prepping for the morning wash-up,
I found an all-to-familiar frowny face in the mirror,
squinty eyes peeking through hair
continuing to get thinner
as opposed to other pieces and parts
that could certainly benefit from that descriptive
and actual transformation according to
both my cardiologist and primary care MD
who recommend forms of exercise deeper than
tapping keyboards and wresting with steering wheels.

Suddenly,
my inner rock and roll maven showed up,
flashing her eyebrows up and down;
then the eyes went wide,
bringing the blue to the front,
allowing residual mascara to do its job
of highlighting long lashes.
She was chanting old doo-wop,
the stuff we miss in the alleged music of now,
which merged nicely into
duke, duke duke, duke of earl…
the best song of 1962,
which forced her to do rhythmic arm raises,
which moved to wide arm spreads,
which ended with rhythmic overhead clapping,
which automatically triggered
loud, loud singing which meant
stretching the lower half of her face
and shifting her shoulders,
and then she noticed her breasts waving,
but off rhythm,
so she cupped them (including the overflow)
and added them to the dance routine
and then she started twirling
which moved her into the hall.
On and on she went,
room to room,
noticing what needed to be picked up or dusted,
letting it all become memories,
until she saw a clock and vaguely remembered
one of us had a doctor’s appointment,
another one,
to address arthritis
or was it a hip today
or feet,
maybe the hands.

When there’s no one else at home,
the space becomes her venue,
so Pieces & Parts she rants
in her best Freddy Mercury howl,
AAAHHH-OOOOOO,
as she blows herself kisses,
and there is immediate relief
from the flowing angst
that ebbs and flows
from conversations
she would skip if she could,
and instead, now,
she seizes the moment
that brings her the song that
start the twirling,
inside and out,
as she blows herself kisses
while parading back and forth
in front of the bathroom mirror!
Yee-haw Taylor Swift!
Look out.