In Evelyn's father's den the stereo
plays black and white and nothing in between
(we borrowed it from him): Motown, James Brown;
the Beatles. We are trying integration.
The ways I'm pushing for aren't going to happen.
When we accomplish those, we both shall be
in long-off states--the Show-Me State does not
show me. It only hints what I am missing.
What I am missing, I am missing still.
Sam & Dave advise me yet. "Hold on,"
they caution, from a parsec or some such.
"I'm coming," they are boasting; and I am,
though where I'm coming from, because of whom,
they are too far away, one dead, to know.
One dead, to know which romance was a gift
I couldn't take and wouldn't understand.
Her dad was decent, tethering upstairs,
trusting the daughter, not the male, I'd guess.
A daughter is a difficult bequest
to let devolve upon a world of wanters,
x-rated chromosomers, who can synch
Temptin' Temptations, though at shower time.
At shower time we give our gifts away
to classmates' daughters' daughters. Earnestly,
we try not to remember what we were
when we had someone's daughter in our hands.
Our hands have shaped affairs since then. They rock