Big Band Swing

I spend grey
mornings giving
cherry pie kisses
to the gentlemen
at the Old Home.
They laugh and
ask what man gave
me his bolling shirt.
"He flew off to
Ireland to drink
and dance and sing."

My voice is light, but
my smile is a sad one.
I do not say that he
flew on angel wings,
that loss swept him
away, like Poe's raven,
in the night.
I carriy on, words
sincere, but hide the
child in my heart,
weeping with lonliness.

The old men talk of
politics and the world.
"We need to end poverty
and take steps to prevent
global warming. I've got
grandchildren I need to
start worring about."

Salt air waifts up from
Boston Harbor, reminding
me of the last time
I was on the beach,
building a sand castle
on the edge of the ocean,
my angel decorating it
with orchids and dasies
and gifts from the sea.
We wrote messages in
sea-green bottles for
other lovers to find.

I deal out a hand of
Black Jack to the men,
though I'd much rather
play Johnny, Johnny.
They don't know this,
of course, because to
them I am a normal
young girl with a loving
beau waiting across
the pond, in Ireland.

From my ball cap, I
pull out my heart and
share it with my friends,
a picture of my love
and proof of my
inability to move on.
The old men, with
their cherry-kissed
cheeks, say I'm lucky
and ask me to dance.

I worry about their
health as we bounce
to the lively beat of
Big Band Swing.