WHOOPTEE FUCKIN' DO FOR YOU

for A & A

Whooptee fuckin’ do for you! she said,

this was their first cocktail party, a soiree

in their honor, drinking Grey Goose kumquat quests

and chanting Ferlinghetti’s “Constantly Risking Absurdity”

from the picnic table festooned with paper lanterns

and tiki torches. The guests sulked and slinked

in their sultriness, words slurred in the syrupy

sloops of fireflies and luna moths floating

their carnal syntax across bare shoulders

and breasts, men stripping down to vests, there's dancing

barefoot across the dewy grass -- someone

put on Sinatra so they're dancing -- and

when he said he needed to recite his swan song

they all sang "The Way You Look Tonight" with

Ol' Blue Eyes, they weren’t having any of it, no,

this is not how artists fade away, this

is not how cognitive theorists launch their careers,

there’s too much wisteria curlicued overhead,

she pleaded with every slender braceleted gal

swooning to the crooning she could corner:

Do you think I’m pretty? Do you think I’m smart?

And of course they nodded and danced, yes dear,

of course you are, you are!, kumquat quests spilling

over their hands and down their lovers’ spines

as they danced, cooling the humid sweat and

patience from their fingers, and now he was

holding court by the fountain of Aphrodite

riding a swan, he was telling them all about

the swan, the song, and she, spying him, found him

so luscious, so utterly divine, and there,

among those flush-fleshed calypso dipsos,

she bounced up to the picnic table proclaiming

her right to holiness, to sing the Canticle

of Canticles!, and he, washing his hands in

Aphrodite’s spillage, shouted that he’d

never slurped oysters from their shells. The

lascivious couples slinked off into something

like a fistful of pixie stix poured down one’s throat

when looking at the stars, wax bottles of sugar

water one drinks to quaff their preternatural thirst,

licking the frosting off red velvet cupcakes,

whooptee fuckin do!, she shouted, Is this

all there is? Whooptee fuckin do for you! he sputtered.

This was not their swan song, they knew, but what did

they know? The night was fading and folks were

copulating in the neighbor's hottub, shagging

in the bearded iris, frolicking in the perfumed

French lilacs. They were left with the platter of

Cheez-Its and Triscuits, red grapes, cold asparagus tips,

potato chips and melted brie and the Eurythmics.

Standing there on the picnic table, under

the paper lanterns, they touched each other's lips

with their fingertips. Whooptee fuckin do for you!

baby, Whooptee fuckin do for you!