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.