Whoopi
The way she first entered the stage,
I’ll never forget that look,
Grabbed 'em by the balls, she did and often, never once
Letting go
Tangy
Naughty spice, like any good spreadable
--she’d be the first to admit it
gone that far
skipped her fellow pin-up babes
stepped into a bag burning on her doorsteps
tossed a tease or two, equal-opportunist that she is,
here and there
across the net or to the Rockettes--
Nothing kinky, no felicities and not a single fetish
(that would prove to be Monday night’s surprise)
--microphones and lead-
dreds over makeovers,
the politics of easybake ovens and the like
No, these were never at issue. . . .
What was?
That she was so much more
more than a personality
a personality packing a smart mouth
She backed the stars
Baked against the sky
Polished the pro in the professional she had learned to be
She had it all.
Full waist.
Mothering breasts, comfort hips the size of a Sultan’s sedan
--and just about as fast--
the gift of a voice come-lately
a bite and wit, maybe a whip
that tugged at your heartstrings, held her audience for
miles around,
all the way to the Big White House on the Hill
she resonated,
sympathetic vibrations I know felt
alongside an undeserved reputation that others,
newbees in diapers, just like their father
felt
follow her forever
snuffing her candles before they were lit
shoveling the stars onto her porch
into her own narrow corner of the sky
as another idol tumbled, felled
meteroic
from idolatry by idiocy
That's when I finally found the remote
tucked, knee-high
behind
a macramé cushion on my couch
changed channels
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