the ungyrateable truth

I have never seen a jellyfish flop around
on the tarmac of logan airport,
that's ok.
I dont' need to,

I've watched my little boy dancing in the living room
to strains of disco while eating chocolate.

He reminds me of the day Elvis died
back in the summer of 1977.

I feigned a seizure
flopped on the oval orange rust and gold
of the diningroom rug rug on top the hard wood floor
while mom served the creamed peas and tuna -- nonplussed.

It is not because Elvis is dead
on a handful of qualudes
that he won't teach me to gyrate my hips

It is the tragedy in my genes
the rhythmless dervish of me
in these denim trousers
that my little boy inherited from me.