We were practicing our splits, perfecting our slides
across the basement floor on one foot, impossible
to beat the hardest working man in show business
even as we cheated in our sock feet. Upstairs,
our grandmother hurled her wrecking-ball voice
at us before we finished miming the first verse—
I don’t care ha! about your past
We knew she wasn’t really hollering about the TV blaring
or that we’d skipped our Saturday housework chores.
She wasn’t really cross that we dragged her white
chenille bedspread downstairs so we’d have a royal
robe to throw off at the end of the song. We twisted
against the timbre of her rage, while we mimicked Soul
Brother No. 1 cloaked by Danny Ray then coaxed
off the stage exhausted only to revive, abandon
the cape, grab that microphone and whirl
and gyrate and split
us one more time.