The Pink Suit
Boy with no father is dutifully attentive
To the great glass screen’s
Daily commands,
When the unrelenting persuasion
Stopped for a message not from any sponsor.
Reporters on the scene couldn’t confirm
What they instinctively knew was true, so
Doing their job of clamoring for anything
That amounts to official word,
They passed on to us two of them: “Oh No!,”
Which they heard spoken by the pretty woman in the pink suit.
And in no time the boy runs
Into the hallway, crossing two generations
And defying all propriety
To callously interrupt a sacred ritual
Of afternoon telephoning,
To recount to his PTA-organizing
And very Republican grandma
As best as his untrained five-year-old mind can
What just happened in some place called Dallas, Texas.
Any misgivings over such an impolite gesture
Vanished as she ended the call
With immediacy never again to be seen.
Seconds later, back in the living room
Where doilies draped the couch and
The Werner Sollman Jesus hung on the wall,
She consoles the boy with a light but constant embrace
And repeated assurances as all eyes are fixed on the screen
That, “It’s all right. We’ll have Johnson.”
The brave calm in her voice and her touch
Steadies herself as much as the boy,
Letting her draw comfort from a kindergartner’s innocence
While lending him her wisdom.
And as the boy ponders the words, “Oh no,”
Spoken by the pretty woman in the pink suit
In some place called Dallas, Texas,
His own primal feeling of futility
Never before graspable
Now has a two-word name.
Aw!
ReplyDelete