4 Snapshots of ’99

Comments Off on 4 Snapshots of ’99 Issue 4, Poetry, Writing

Zach Rahed

Saturday mornings
Watching Looney Tunes in Red Sox pajamas
Casual drives down Lake Street
Summer of ’99
Pancakes whisked and flipped
Oldies whistling “The House of the Rising Sun”
The Animals strumming resonant chords
Like ruby-throated, jet-planed wings outside the glass
“Boys, come quick!” Grandpa’s adamant
“A hummingbird! Ooooo!” he gawks
A spatula caked with pancake batter
Clacks against the floor
“Kenneth!” Granny scorns
Feet stomp the linoleum vined with pink oriental rose petals
Thee gold-yellow glow of the salubrious sun pierces through the windows
“Be still, boys. Don’t scare em.”
“What’s up, Doc?” Bugs Bunny intervenes
Laughter at the vestibule of light
Animated visages spring to vibrant forms of life
Our pupils absorb perennial prestige

“Shrewd move. Shrewd move, indeed.”
Grandpa mends the top of his befuddled skull
The white knight begins to trot
Takes charge… gallops forth
“Chess is a game partnered with sophisticated conviction,” a superlative bequest from tiger
“Who’s winning? You or gram-poo-pa?” Granny shouts
From across the time-worn, wooly furrowed rug
Fine china glimmers in the soft chandelier light
Seconds tick by in a silent radiance
“ME! ME! ME!” I chant,
Jocular cackles spiral from room to room
And settle, dissolving mysticism
As we collect our lost breath
From the resplendent sentiments of the past

10:00 pm
Crickets chirping, chanting in my ears
Litanies sung for the aureated stars
Tobacco smoke sailing betwixt Swarovski crystals
Lazy stratocumulus clouds
Regis Philbin asks the million-dollar question:
An obstinate gambler opts out
“You lunkhead! You had the 50/50!”
Repeatedly, Grandpa slaps his forehead
A balloon of inflated frustration
Deflates… eventually “Hey, Tiger?” The overzealous face of Regis is expelled
Grandpa’s pipe rests comfortably in hand
He awaits a tired, innocuous gaze
Smoke swirling, zig-zagging
Dragons breath mysteries
“When is a rose, a rose, a rose?”
Tiger shrugs his limp shoulders
Tiger chews vanities… spits them out
Hazel-green eyes drop hopelessly
to the paling-blue carpet
“when it’s exposed, exposed, exposed”
Tapping his leather soles once, twice, thrice, respectively

After long bouts, bursts, and fireworks:
“Alright, guys! Early to bed, early to rise”
“Well I wouldn’t call smoking healthy or wise, dear”
Fuming, fumbling grumbles protest from a green leather recliner
A sapphire-jeweled wrist wrapped around a Canadian club on the rocks
Gram-poo-pa extends a calloused hand to each of us
“Put it there, pal! See you kids tomorrow. Bright and early.

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