ELIZABETH J. COLEMAN
Joy Had No Use for E
I was thirty,
a country bumpkin.
So brash and wild,
it was shocking.
Drunk all day,
all night.
This isn’t to say
I was cocky,
no sir,
just wildly buoyant.
Man, I was
chair of all boards.
I was assonant,
I was badass,
I was also colossally fun.
Protozoan, you could say.
I was your north star, buddy,
your alibi.
I was piano, sax, mouth, soul.
Cat food, dog food, bird food, sugar, salt,
a cloudburst.
I was lion, husband, laugh.
A Lady! Ha!
In truth, I was your sun,
your moon, your
Sunday nights.
A month of Sundays.
It was nuts.
It was bananas.
And Sunday was pizza day
all day.
Balloons sang,
so many balloons.
It was on a ranch,
no a farm, no in a city,
with its scary fast-crawling rats.
Yuck!
Mornings you sang songs
from musicals,
tangos,
folk songs, classical stuff,
loud, brash, drunk too.
I dug your singing,
dug you: your class,
your pizazz.
I was happy
in a giddy, foolish,
Yiddish, Buddhist
sort of way.