The Histrionics of Game Shows

I’m not making this up, and I’ve got a right to say it:

Polo was my game, and my mallet was the sky.

But I’ve no memory of my history, and

now it’s just myself, and a pretty

freckled orphan in some cat’s pajamas. Also, it seems, a dog.

“Don’t give my dog chocolate, because it’ll make his stomach

swell up and explode,” she said.

I watched her

face, small as hope,

small as pixels, every fresh outburst

a little prayer. The sun sets

like a southerner, sighing,

easing down on the porch.

Memory is a passionate pillow kiss

at eleven, a

sordid mock mop tango

to boot. Your fingers run down

it’s hair, your eyes are ablaze.

and history, oh!

history has ever been a game show,

a silly indulgence for academics

and lonely mothers. And we each

choose a deity—Barker, the Immortal, or

Wise Trebek, or maybe Louie Anderson,

maybe. He’s the Nietzschian candidate.

It’s yours like a jockstrap, though;

no sense in pretending someone wants that.

  

“You mean pigeons,” I said. “And probably Alka-Seltzer,”

but she was already busy with breakfast—

She folded little stars into an omelet, removed
her apron
and clicked

the hanging chain.