Tapas

by Kevin Sweeney

While others stand in varying configurations about the
room, ponder the ineffable and inexorable struggle to
bring great poetry to the world, Wayne, Peter and I
sit at a table at one end, enjoying wings, nachos and
quesadillas, blessedly free this night at the Review ’s
Xmas party, and discuss matters equally profound.
I pose a question: If God said you could have any
singing voice you want, whose great voice would
you choose? Trying to be gracious and avoid the
tendency of some poets, great or not, to insert
themselves conspicuously into the dialogue, I wait
to hear from Wayne and Peter but am shocked when
each extols the talent of Freddy Mercury and bemoan
his loss to music since I always hated Queen songs and
don’t care who is the champion. While Peter reveres
opera singers I’ve never heard of, Wayne commits to
Freddy as his choice, so I speak up and say for me
it comes down to David Ruffin, Lou Rawls and Frank
Sinatra, but that if God interrupted and said I could
have Marvin Gaye’s voice, I wouldn’t argue with
the Lord. Meanwhile we three head back to the
buffet table for more tapas without appearing to be
obvious binge-eaters since the arbiters of poetic taste
are not eating stuffed potato skins as their conversation,
unlike ours, seems to survive with fewer distractions.