In Bed with Rex Smith, 1979

He’s forty-six and still watching G.I Joe. I get the nostalgia, but I don’t get

why it happens when he’s drunk. I see it day after day, a deep-rooted  sadness in his gut during intense watering, bloated for a bygone time. 

It’s always the same. I sit and wonder why I stay with a waning moon.  

I binge watch Rex Smith in bed, the golden beast: sunrays hair, 

python hips sway & shake under the G in Gimbles.

His lips hit the microphone and it dawns on me,

I’m doing the same as he, trying to escape this sadness.

Poem by Nancy Byrne Iannucci.

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