Some Like It Hot

Introduce snow. The camera pans
Across two men in trench-coats looking darkly handsome.
Slightly flawed
Good-guys, the kind of guys you’d like to marry.

The shiny trombones slide thick, brassy notes
each time the camera frames Monroe
as if to say
“Zowie, babe! You’re really smokin’!’”

Lemon and Curtis wrangle the laughs,
(all legs, lipstick, and fancy hats),
The band jams
while the mobster buttons his leather spats.

The silver-screen really was silver then,
When Monroe was bright, with platinum
Hair, silky skin.
Did anyone ever look better in diamonds?

Fade to the end, where all’s well that ends well.
She turned in the fuzzy end
Of the lollipop.
She somehow got lucky; she saw her losing-streak stop.