Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Frankie and the Dog

They colorized a picture of Frank Sinatra.

They gave him shining, perfectly sculpted pearl teeth,
radiating crystal-blue eyes,
and saturated, golden skin.

I’m sweeping pink flower petals into the trash, looking at it.

“Frank Sinatra didn’t look like that,” I think to myself.

“He had crooked teeth, dirty teeth.”

I think about the old black-and-white pictures of him.
I think about the stories where he berated women,
and said racist things about Sammy Davis Jr.,

and I clip the dead branches off my plants 
to make them healthy.

“Nobody could have eyes that blue,” I think as I look at the picture again.

“He looks like a digital saint.” 

Images of stained glass pour through my mind. Frankie and the rat pack are immortalized in glass windows, smoking cigars, bringing music to the desert. 

I hear “Fly Me to the Moon.”

I see the rings of Saturn. I imagine what summer is like on Jupiter,
with purple waves of chemicals rustling like dead leaves,
and I look back at the picture of Frank. 

“That skin looks like the product of radiation.”

I think about the nuclear scare of the 50s, bombs falling out of planes, people dying in muddy trenches, jungles vanishing in orange flame,

and I become altogether too sad looking at that picture of Frankie.

So I popped it into photoshop,

made it black and white like I thought it ought to be, 
and added a cute dog to cheer myself up. 

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