~FLOYD SKLOOT~
LABOR DAY PARTY
—Brooklyn, 1952
Through the banister and
haze
of words wreathed in cigar
smoke,
I watch our solid cherry
Parsons
tables
float as though balanced
on wings
of eagles. Despite
the heat,
Mother in her sable
stole weaves
in and out of dancers,
gripping
ice
in silver tongs, finding
drinks
to freshen.
Father has all the answers
tonight,
has aces high, has licked
his jinx
for good.
There is so much noise
the horns
of cars fit right in, and
such glitter
the glimmer from
streetlights
through torn screens only
adorns
the party's edges.
This night-world
shimmers with late
summer laughter,
its skin pure sound like
the sigh
that follows song, strange
as parents
who kiss when they
pass. Our
guests
move from light to shadow
and back.
© by Floyd Skloot
