Katerina Fretwell
Poetry
A Fifties’ Show 15
On a b&w screen, the set a spartan NYC flat,
Jackie Gleason & Audrey Meadows dueled
while Ed Norton, born in my town,
played gagster on the sidelines. Audrey’s
rolled-eyeball Oh, Ralph after Jackie’s
Pow, right in the kisser! stoked every
hausfrau trapped into putting out
the milkman & Toll House cookies,
Rosie the Riveter consigned
to history’s dustbin. In a box-house,
2 widows & 2 cousins—Mom, Ruth, Derek & I
squalled like The Honeymooners.
In Happy Hour, Mom & Ruth got pissed, 4 to 6.
Drinking bitters’ residue, Derek and I fed the dog
Swanson TV dinners. The dog bit the diva
the one my cuz blasted on his tuba
for her 7 am Saturday arias—
Schnauzer had to be put down.
Ruth painted even the fridge
eggshell-blue. We stroked the other
rooms green as my envy—Derek
could work, shag and get pissed.
Our fifties double-mom, 2 kids, 1 dog
honeymoon passed like a TV episode,
say today’s CSI Crime Scene. Granddad swept
Ruth’s art and Mom’s law degrees
aside—Be proper moms.
In Black & White 12
As we raced for Assembly
the rickety projector
spit out a b & w movie—
white-tooth army grinds
down the hapless black
imprinting on us grade-schoolers—
white wins: the catch career fame fortune
black snags: the dear john pink slip bad rep/rap.
The saccharine flick’s sermon
infected me like halitosis or gingivitis
as the white-coated dentist
pinned me down
felt me up
Mom in disbelief that
he teethed on my budding tits
since he discounted the price.
Today’s TV Closeup ads airbrush
the old Brusha Brusha into film noir—
transfigured white smiles
sugar-coat the gap
between haves & nots.
Rotten gums are linked to strokes ...
Black army chips away—few can afford
the drill, let alone the cosmetic touch-up.
1955
Royal Bearing 57
(To Aunt Kate 1910 – 2000)
Imposing at six feet,
your blue orbs bore down
as I rudely pushed you aside
in my nonsensical kinder-years.
Married into Mom’s bankrupt
family, her domestic
ineptitude stunned your
base-camp-survival mode,
you trained me to sew
zippers, iron Oxford cloth
button-downs and coddle
poached eggs just so.
Eschewing French-German
Honours to wed, you joshed
that the six IQ points short
of Mom’s 160 afforded you
house smarts. Raconteur
enthroned in a wingback,
you harvested us five
cousins—at your feet,
presented yourself—
Mrs Search & Rescue
in family mishaps.
Dying, Mom chose for
my coerced social curtsy
her frayed brown frock.
You nixed that, At least
give her the proper armour!
Modern Cinderella, I bowed
to dowagers on the dais—armed
in borrowed obligatory off-white.
Bless your common sense.