Pleased to be part of the Pure Slush Beautifullest Anthology:

Here is the poem:

Isn’t She Lovely

Cousin Sarah
was plain as pine.
Every time she
walked by,
my friend Davy
would sing
“There she is
Miss America.”
He was 10–nearly 11
and his voice
would always break at “my ideal.”

If you did that today
I imagine someone
would call you on it—
tears, parents, sensitivity
training would follow.
But in Brooklyn, in 1954
bullying was only a big deal
if you happened to pick on
someone with an older brother.

Not that Davy was anything
to look at
resembling on his good days
a boxer pup.
He sang and sang
and over the years
a careful listener
could hear the meaning change.

In 1968, when Sarah married Davy
on the basketball court,
the ushers were all stoned,
and of course we sang
“Miss America”
when Davy took his place—
resplendent in his high top Keds,
under the netless hoop.

One Sunday a month,
I meet them
at the Atlantis Diner
in Canarsie.
Over 50 years,
they’ve produced
enough kids and grandkids
to fill a small theater—
and wouldn’t you know it,
they’re all stunning.

And every time Sarah
walks from the ladies room
to the table
Davy, god bless him, still hums it—
celebrating his many years
of living with her loveliness.