Grinning while pretending to glance
over the guest list, she giggled: “Godawful.
Wanna know what we called gin in high school?”

“The Panty Remover! Gee, I’m amazed
I remembered that. We gargled with it.”
I felt like a greenhorn.  She kept gabbing.
“Memory. It’s all in the genome.” She tapped
the geodesic dome known as her head.
“Greta Garbo, Clark Gable, Greer Garson,
we all grew up together. They’d come over
Sunday nights for mom’s giblets with gravy
and Hungarian Goulash.” Jack Benny,
genius gagster, did make frequent references
to gay life. I quit eating meat because of the gristle.
It’s grits and glazed donuts now for each meal.
Green beans almondine are served gratis
with the special every Wednesday. Her parties
are all ghoulfests. That guru’s gung ho
for playing grab-ass—gaga about gloom
and doom, too. Galapagos is an island
I’d gladly retire to, joining its ranks of gifted
swimming lizards, my reptilian grin glittering
like a mouthful of garnets. Grevious to admit
my girdle is killing me. If you ask that garrulous
old geezer to your gala and he so much
as guffaws in my direction, I’m gone.