Volume 16 ~ Spring 2004 ~ ISSN 1543-6063

PATRICIA SPEARS JONES

 
How to Marry A Millionaire

There are three girls, always, three.
They learn to perform pratfalls
without breaking strings of perfectly matched pearls.

Two honor the cardinals—no wealthy man is out of the loop.
Just because he wears baggy pants
and his beard is untrimmed does not mean he’s a bad comic.

Learn the language of tailors, bookmakers, and philanthropists.
Give the guy a chance to get used to your
hint of glamour and your terrific work ethic.
Skirts tight, legs long, if possible or via bottle, be blonde.
Forget mystery, we’re talking American men.

One of them cares a little less for this hunt.
She questions her companion’s faith in the economics of marriage.
Who will marry a poor man—a guy who is smart, funny,
and wears his working clothes with ease—
would she?!

But this is a comedy. No one is as they seem.
The natural-peroxided blonde wears glasses and understands quantum mechanics.
The older, brazen woman is not nearly as needy as she sings.
And the cynic needs the least makeup.

When rivals trip, our heroines scramble after portfolios flung
across highly polished parquet floors.

Everyone runs in and out of enormous doors
leading to or away from bedrooms.
As prey, the soon to be grooms remain
unaware of their fiancées’
stealth success.
Spines stiffen.
Heart muscles contract; expand.
Lawyers caution pre nuptial.

But he is the prize for the woman who carefully places
Love
in its market perspective

Whispering low in front of an overly lit makeup mirror,
she reminds herself that it is just as easy to love a rich man as a poor one.
And darn it (this was the fifties), she works for her living.
Sniff. The pratfalls work.
As does the fierce rivalry among these women.
Each get the man she deserves.

The illusion of true love
frames the final reel.
(In a flower-filled Anglican chapel somewhere off Madison Avenue)

Everyone smiles as the bride in bouffant white
and the groom in a hurry to get on with it cutaway,

whisper their proper vows.
Treacly music swoons as the camera portrays in close-up
the perfect couple as they bare their strong, huge Hollywood teeth.

Avaricious carnivores, grand, swift, bountiful
Ready to kiss.


BLUE SKIES
(the movie, 2 songs and the real thing)

Bing Crosby did a great job in one of those thankless roles from the late 40s
When way past his prime, he played swain to an ingénue, blonde, wholesome,
easily forgotten, but the song’s minor key sweetness lingers

The painted backdrops made his slightly balding seducer that much more surreal
It would have been better if he were a Lothario. Someone petty, vain and generously
Bitter from past affairs done in. Done for. Or possibly he would have welcomed

this wild music coming off my CD player, Tori Amos singing/yelping
blue skies like some crazed doll whose box is stuck
Blue skies blue skies blue skies

And here am I, wide blue skies so near, clouds seem touchable.
And where are you? In my waking mind, in my real need for deep sleep.

Losing you has left me stranded, strained. Bing’s handsome voice rolls
Berlin’s melody along a trail of need that popular music somehow meets
so easily, like the perfect fit of English velvet gloves.

Selective memory loss comes with advanced dreaming.
I must give the potion for forgetfulness time to work.
Blue skies blue skies blue skies help me dream a new memory.

Poems © Patricia Spears Jones 2004. All rights reserved.

Duncan Hannah
www.jamesgrahamandsons.com

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