It was kismet — no, it was the glow
of Broadway rain

It was mother at the theater, sitting
in the dark in her damp tweed suit,
umbrella folded, white kid gloves
spread on her lap like a dinner napkin.

It was her glasses, moist —
glazed in the air a kettle makes,
in the breath of the steaming vegetables
we ate at home on Thursday nights
and every night, each season

we sat like soft vegetables,
knees bathed in damask
in a small damp town upstate,
not in the restaurant near the theater
where Kismet was in season

and Alfred Drake sang
to my soft-haired mother
perfumed like a white night flower
moist with her season, and open,
glowing behind steamed glasses

It was the show tunes she’d sung
to the kettles in the kitchen for years

- – - – - – - – - -

Echo 681, 1998