Aligned with the classics

I’m 15, watching “Swing Time,” wondering if anything could ever be as smooth
as the dancing of Fred and Ginger
and dialog of 1930’s writers.
Perhaps Chaplin before talkies.
I imagine riffing like Rosalind Russell
but I’m nobody’s Girl Friday.
I glare like Bacall and ache like Cary Grant
without discernable roots.
The ‘40s and ‘50s flew by
but not without leaving marks.
I’m 51 and my marks are showing in ways
I had not anticipated.
I don’t know how long I can hold on
before I lose it like Brando
or become cynical like Bogart.
The treasure of finding slivers of light
between noir blinds
is like finding new love when you’re looking
for a good book; it’s all a beautiful surprise.
I will never be as cool as Grace Kelly
or as wanted as Marilyn
and I don’t seem to have a sense of right
like Cooper or Stewart.
Who would I have been then?
Bette Davis or Rita Hayworth, or maybe
Ingrid Bergman with plenty of smarts
but questionable choices.
I’d probably be a contract player, a
character actor, a dancer in the chorus line.
God knows I’m not enough of a looker
to be a lead or enough of a writer
to figure out what comes next.