They say that Frank Sinatra
(a buffoon to some, Perseus to others)
was an impeccable dresser
(on this there is no debate). Frank was
especially fastidious about his
shoes, dress & otherwise.
Polish and glossy shine a must.
Before staggering out the door with
Dino and Sammy and the other
minor constellations, a crystal tumbler
filled to the brim with iced tea,
he’d jam his shiny-shoed feet under the
nearest couch, tilt them up, and
give the kicks a cheap shine.
I think about those couches sometimes.
Like the way I think about
the girls in A Hard Day’s Night,
reduced to tears by the sight of Paul’s bob,
how many of them are dead now, how many
lit by the cold fireworks of memory,
dull & worn, like those
couches Frank Sinatra shined his shoes on.
And how many, if you tumped them over
would give the most delicate surprise,
a streak of faded black polish
hinting at
past glories.