Check this out.
As you must know by now
All the poetry I am writing now
Is all about me.
It's all I have left.
That opens the door to a lot of material,
So just bear with me
And I'll try to make it worth your while.
My formula is to write something
That makes you really glad that you aren't me
Something embarrassing
That doesn't mean anything in the long run
And doesn't require any thought
On your part or mine.
Watch how I make this story about a friend's mother's memorial
Feature me.
We were invited to a party by this friend
That was in honor of her mother
Whom she had just seen off.
She knew how to sting, that woman.
My friend had to wrack her brain
To come up with a theme for her mother's memorial
That would entice people to come,
Something to celebrate her mother's memory.
Then she remembered how much her mother
Loved to dress up and host parties
Dressed in satin and sequins
And silver gloves to her elbows
Like Mae West.
So, when she described the party
I asked what era are we talking,
And she said, Oh, the 50s / 60s.
So you know where I went with this.
I remembered how cool I Iooked at 16 in striped bell bottoms
With wire-rim glasses like John Sebastion
And engineer boots.
Now that you have pictured me,
Just finish picturing me arriving at the party
Like an anachronism showing up at Club 54
When everyone was into disco
(But also into whatever was hip in 1976
Which was really up for grabs
And, depending on how good your imagination is
You can picture Andy Warhol over there
Talking to Bob Weiner
Who just passed out on the settee with his eyes wide open)
And she comes up and says
I messed up
We're doing the 50s.
Of course I already knew that when I stepped out of the car
Because the music streaming from the load-speaker on the deck
Was Frankie Valli, "My mother's eyes".
