Wicked Flight

An oaf threw my hardshell luggage

like a javelin

screwing the crease in my Sans-a-Belt slacks

and breaking a case of Hai Karate cologne

My clothes smelled like Enter the Dragon for the next

decade

I waited till Nixon was president till a stewardess

lit my cig

and the poor service killed my only chance of rubbing elbows with Melvin Laird

then I was a disaster in the board room

a nurse is now taking my temperature

as I lay face down at the home

Relaxing

I’m wearing my lap robe

inhaling in slow breaths

my Robert Goulet on vinyl

the originals, no schlock remastering

I hate when they clean the strings

I need it down and dirty

It’s Bob rolling out

of four foot speakers in quad

and up below the sash

My Barca Lounger flanked

with four foot Greek statues

imported from exotic China

My etchings of Paris

Detroit and Bayonne

by an artist I met in Newark

who could work

from a Rand McNally atlas

nest in the velour walls

I’m not at work today

moving pallettes of ketchup

with a fork lift

Sandwich

Cows don’t talk

so there wasn’t that issue

like a faux pas

but it was a beef tongue sandwich

piled high, with mustard, on rye

the linguistics came

when I threw some of it

to a pigeon near the wall

beside the delicatessen

a volley of pigeon saw it

and hawked down

and a bird fracas erupted

checking and high sticking

after the comestible puck

it spoke about intent

Selling by Phone

dialing phones all day

the spagetti in the head fell in shingles

as I pulled in a sale

disconnected phones

answering machines

with the voice of their snotty kids

set like rat traps

with cheese for me

The boss said I did good

though he could see

like eyes in the back of the head

it was dogs and ponies

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mailto: Curio97@cs.com