PLAYING ALONG TO THE WEIRD MUSIC
by Kevin Ridgeway
he watched races and old science shows in the dark
of his living room, attired in swim trunks and a big
and tall plaid shirt still crinkling from its flat plastic
wrapping, every single window shade pulled down,
hiding from the sun and everyone else since my
grandmother dragged her luggage out the front door
decades earlier.
he loved jazz and bebop; it would drool from
a little fuzzy radio that he would adjust until he vaporized
an orchestra of static imposters trying to
jam behind Chet Baker. he did not allow me to fiddle with
the strange assortment of old engine parts that covered
his living room carpet, but he always let me play with
the distracting fleet of model cars and airplanes so
that he could set to work on building mini speed demons
for Sunday morning desert races, the only time he ever
bothered to wear pants.
one afternoon, Labyrinth starring David Bowie came on;
I sat on his lap and we watched Bowie steal infants and
croon space grooves with freakish cousins of the Muppets.
I could feel his gut tense and move up and down with laughter
and his heart sounded like a Gene Krupa drum beat that told
me he was not haunted by that same old lifetime of
disappointment but that he was as fresh and wide eyed as that
same silly depression-era kid high on model airplane glue and
still passionately daydreaming his way out of the labyrinths he
had built around himself.
Originally Published in The Chaffey Review
You can also find this poem in my first collection, which can be ordered here:
