High C

This spring your whole inner life is Little Richard.You surrender to his octave-jumping high notes as he shakes out the fringes of glittering coat. His boots glitter, too. How narrow, those feet. And those wigs! How full. “Is that your hair?” he's asked. “It's mine. I bought it.” Decade by decade, you see him age but are convinced he beats back time. And always his beauty endures. Bare-chested under his cape, he strolled through Heathrow.“Man drop his cup of coffee when he see  I give him the peace sign.” Now he's streaming through earbuds into your brain,