Jewish singles night at the bar.
Queens, 1978.
Kashered* for your delight.
Men like my dad:
Unattractive mustaches,
clothes bought by their mothers.
Women like my mom:
Unruly perms,
polyester pants up to the waist.
Why must my parents be so clichéd,
eyeing each other on the dance floor,
having a drink, starting a life together?
My experience will be exotic:
Perhaps a Jewish singles bar,
but in England, Australia or France.
I will have Cleopatra hair
and my mate a Mohawk.
We will complain about the horrid music,
the bass thump making our brains implode.
We will elope to Africa,
where the Sahara moon grins
and somewhere is the sound of my parents crying,
as we get married under a chuppa.
*Kasher: (Hebrew) To make fit for use