Tuesday, July 28, 2015

A Soap Opera (poem)

A Soap Opera
When Jim noticed his wife’s face,
straight as a stripper and hotter
than down in July, he committed
to a cloister.
He was still in his navel
when his wife met him again.
She was dressed in soot
and trotting like a primrose.
But the crust in his eyes
started to flake, and he couldn’t
see the ocean through his window.
Then his wife’s Samsonite
gave way, and she started to slap him.
But a man named Hillock
walked into their room.
(His hair was curly, of course.)

By this time his wife was back in Dallas.
She knew he’d never sell the house.

Joel Fry

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