“It’s not MJ most people are mourning. It’s their own childhoods. Realization that icons they grew up with are mortal as they are is hard to face.” –random Tweet from Twitter
“My best friend died yesterday.
Last week it was my sister.
And then there was Michael Jackson.
This has been a horrible month for me.”
It was one of those times you don’t know what to say
Like being told your fly is down in church,
Or your soul mate no longer loves you.
Perhaps my disdain for the combination of khaki and red
Contributed to my lack of sympathy.
Or the fact I didn’t know those people,
And June was quite a pleasant month for me.
But apathy slithered to annoyance.
And I hoped my inability to humor people
And lack of patience wouldn’t cause me to snap:
Belittling her 12 item only line,
6 articles in the fitting room at a time,
Minimum wage sentiments.
Am I a monster for simply wanting to just pay
For my teriyaki beef jerky and curtain rod?
Because when was the last time
She even saw her best friend?
How well did she really know her sister?
And can she say how many consecutive weeks Thriller
Was number one on the top 100 charts?
I don’t have a bf.
Every Sunday I go swimming at my brother’s house
In the ugly city with the pretty name.
I always related more to Tito.
And it was 17 weeks…
As a kid I danced in my bedroom,
Loudly proclaiming to the neighbors off key
As if it were true,
Billy Jean was not my lover,
She’s just a girl,
And I was adamant the kid is not my son.
Over the years, I often wondered
Who this Billy Jean was.
Why she didn’t practice safe sex.
And through the years,
I’ve read poems dedicated to me realizing,
She’s the only woman who truly meant it when she
I was the one.
“I’m sorry. I hope things get better,”
I said to the crestfallen cashier,
Paying my condolences and $15
Collecting my change.
Because there is something humbling about
Putting up a curtain rod,
And the death of one’s childhood.