Joe Dolce: ‘Constellation’ and ‘Gingerbread House’

Constellation

Victoria’s Secret Dylan.
Las Vegas Elvis.
Toupéed Sinatra.
Nose-lifted Jackson.
Door-hung Hutchence.

Five Emperors repose indolently,
in Elysium, or Hell, or Nowhere,
attended, foot and hand,
by tattooed cherubim roadies.
Four have nodded off,
the fifth releases Sacred Wind.
The gallery genuflects.

Meanwhile, Somewhere,
five children gaze out windows
of midnight schoolrooms,
lesson-bored, staring in awe
at the star dome above,
imagining how one day
they might jigsaw,
their glittering pieces,
into Cassiopeia, Chamaeleon, Triangulum.

Joe Dolce

Gingerbread House

Two out of the past three
nights have been therapy nights:
shortcomings, character flaws,
thorough analysis of every member
of both our families,
self-criticism, allegation, hearsay,
emotional manipulation and interpretations,
all braided together deftly with praise,
empowerment, forgiveness,
strategic turning of thoughts elsewhere,
and renewal of vows.
The soundtrack to this marvelous film:
torrential rain drumming on corrugated iron,
a wood-smoke fireplace aria
and sudden crescendo of darkness to sleep,
al fine.

The next morning, the thorough workout
behind us, love glimmers brilliantly
of renewal, first days, origins—

before poisoned fruit,
bread-crumbed forest walks.

Joe Dolce