I was disappointed when he walked into
the room. His lips flapping
like bed sheets on the clothes line in
the wind. I took a vow
that I'd leave the room by scotch. A
Russian poet described him
as the wind in a pair of trousers.
I woke up the next morning. He was
asleep in the Easy Chair. The widow
came in and swatted the flies from his
wavy orange hair. You had to admire
her devotion. Or was she just waiting
for an opportunity
to run off with the table and the
chairs.
Sitting on the porch. With a glass of
Canadian rye. The house next door
was on fire. My aunt and uncle were due
to arrive at eight. Then he wandered
across the front lawn onto my stage.
And started passing out the blame. He
wanted to speak to the man of the
house. I told him he was inside on the mantle
in a jar. His mouth burst into flames.
He wanted names.
I gathered up the kids, the wife and
the cat. Rushed everyone into the Infiniti. I let the cat drive.
We split down the road. Thinking about
the bible. And how all this must seem old. I looked back
and there he was waving his arms like
an inflatable flailing tube man. I put my feet up
on the back seat and flipped back into
the past. Anywhere was better than here.
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