The Truth About Tigers

We have a parlor in our house,
which makes us sound wealthy,
which we most certainly aren’t—
unless compared to most of the world.

You might call it the dining room,
but you’d be wrong.
No table, no dinner parties,
just a deep burgundy glow
that somehow makes Miles Davis
sound even better
floating from the Klipsch speakers,
wired to the Audio-Technica turntable.

One wall is lined with books and records,
vinyl jackets worn, proof they’ve spun
longer than the machine that plays them.

There are a couple of guitars,
a battered Martin, a shiny Gretsch—
both played poorly, but played nonetheless—
and a piano I don’t play at all.

Framed posters—
Newport Jazz Fest ‘65,
Zeppelin in front of The Starship,
Dylan, moody and contemplative—
sometimes make me feel the same.

A Buddha-head lamp glows beside
a small wooden bar,
Nag Champa burning atop,
giving the space a feel somewhere between
swanky jazz lounge
and 1860s opium den.

At the center, a mandala rug,
where a table once stood,
back when this was a dining room—
before we had a parlor,
before we had a word
that made us sound wealthy,
which we most certainly aren’t,
unless compared to most of the world.