Consolation

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I first heard of consolation

when I was home from school 

with a fever. 

A daytime TV game-show prize

for the loser;

Hamburger Helper,

a year's worth of Uncle Ben's 

or Rice-a-Roni, the San Francisco treat.

The host always apologized

as 'Johnny', the disembodied voice of reassurance,

described the fabulous parting 'gifts'

they would receive

for being a good sport,

a set of American Tourister luggage,

a Mr. Coffee (slugger Joe DiMaggio's favourite), 

an endless supply of Dentyne

for fresher breath and cleaner teeth.

Sadly you didn't get the car,

but here's some Turtle Wax

lots of Turtle Wax.

I was riveted by those second placers,

how grateful they seemed, 

smiling as the host's delicate consoling hand 

gently shoved them off stage

so he can get on with the show.

A curtain inside me would open 

as they disappeared 

into the unlit wings

of their private lives,

something in me 

wanted to follow them,

needed to know 

if it all turned out okay for them, 

if the consolation they'd received 

had been enough,

and I took to heart 

the message

that whatever happened,

whatever disappointments, 

none of us leaves this life

empty-handed.