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Many thanks to Allan Fallow for inviting me to grace these pages during this last week! He is a gentleman and a true partron saint of my art...
Here are two final poems from THE HUNCHBACK OF NEIMAN MARCUS...
The True Meaning of Wistful
While trying to jog off the three pounds
I gained at the barbeque,
I turn to watch a sun-bleached
zooming down the bike path
on her Rollerblades,
to a tune on her iPod,
her hair a golden flag
fluttering around her bronzed cheeks,
legs so long
they should be illegal,
haunches as toned and sleek
as a puma’s,
and a shock wave of painful truth
crashes down over my rapidly graying head:
I never had a butt like that,
even when I had a butt like that.
I Consider Myself a Pretty Darn Good Speller
How, then, do I explain the fact
that when I was writing that last poem
I couldn't remember how to spell "illegal?"
I tried "illeagal."
Then cursed like a cuffed criminal
before finally just giving up
and spellchecking it.
how it's going
All the knowledge I once had
slowly seeping out of my head
like an inner tube losing its air?
The next thing you know
I'll be forgetting how to spell my own nayme.