i’m not tammy at all.
my name is roxanne.
i lie across a piano in a skimpy gown.
the piano player winks at me and nods his head.
as if he and i have a secret. we do.
the secret? it’s not real.
at least not in this universe. i missed my calling.
even when i was young i listened to and tried to sing and loved
other music. music with melody and range and soul.
music that made good company on a rainy night . . .
in the wee small hours.
as a matter of fact, that’s the title of one.
singers used to have distinctive voices.
and something called a range.
is it me? or do they all sound alike now?
they squinch up their eyes and throw back their heads
and bare their eerily chalk white teeth . . .
and they have one note. loud. very loud.
and they hold it and repeat it forever. and ever.
and i usually cannot understand a single word they’re singing.
they look constipated. i want to offer them some dulcolax.
i guess it’s a good thing older generations move on off the stage.
each play is different. we had our turn.
and now it’s theirs. and there are apparently millions of people
out there who do not feel as i do. they like it. but . . .
if you don’t mind i’ll just get back up on the piano and belt out
some sultry cole porter.
i can sound breathy or gutsy. it’s all about the mood.
sorry roxanne . . . maybe in the next universe . . .
oh . . . that’s okay. i can dream.
and . . . in the meantime . . . i’ll perform for just me.
and . . .
there’s not a single box of dulcolax to be found in my bathroom cabinet.