Junkyard Wedding

 

Junkyard Wedding

My father sings, tone deaf
the periodic table of elements H-He-Li
as if the musical scale do-re-mi.
Loves soap bubbles, the science.
Invents shaving creams, new alloys
for razor blades. Keeps the family half-broke.
Loves art, half-blind.

He buys paintings, crams the walls
like a back-street gallery.
“For the children’s edification,” he explains.
“Beatnik art,” Mom complains.
One nude, Japanese style,
pubic hair like a fox pelt
Mom stashes in the basement.
One of wrecked automobiles
beneath high voltage power lines,
blue sky, scudding clouds
bears the label AUTO SALVAGE.
Mom seethes.

My girlfriend gazes at carcasses of cars,
makes a polite remark: “How unusual.”
Mom says, “I’ll give you that painting
as a wedding present.” Then blushes
at her faux pas. We are only sixteen,
our flower just budding but already
Mom smells the full bouquet.

Now sixty years—
beatnik junkyard and Japanese nude
grace our living room wall.
Fine art. You like? No?

…..

First published in Slipstream
Painting by Max Ganteaume