The Red Hole
by Glenn Cassidy
A collapsed star – a black hole –
pulls all around it in,
lets nothing out, not even light.
A red dwarf is a small and cool star,
like Sammy Davis circa 1963
or Tom Cruise, except cool.
But what do you call that red thing
on the sidewalk at an awards show
that draws in every star from miles around
and lets nothing but stupidity out?
A black dwarf? A red hole?
I’m wearing Armani with Tiffany pearls,
a Gucci bag, Prada shoes,
Cartier pendant earrings
with rocks big enough to warp gravity.
Even the interviewers do it:
I’m wearing de la Renta.
I’m wearing Manolos and Evan Piccone.
How about Pepsi on your shoulder,
Dupont on the collar,
Lay’s Potato Chips over your heart?
We’ve already established you’re NASCAR,
now we’re just haggling over the brands.
Author’s Comment: The Who are you wearing? schtick at the Oscars annoys me without end. I’m still waiting for somebody to answer, “No one right now, but I hope to be wearing Ben Affleck when I go home.” Last year was the first time I noticed the red carpet interviewers announcing who they were wearing, and that got me started on this poem.