Ted Gacy across the street
has dug up his backyard
and is holding a coming out party
as soon as the smell lessens.
He’s exhibiting downtown next week.
John Done, the alcoholic
on the cardboard, on the corner
sold his bottle collection
just before the crash
and now sells juicers
on the info-channel.
J.C. Pennyless has
moved to Europe and become
a money changer
after having a miraculous conception
while converting
funds for the church
of some later day saint.
Molly, the prostitute
finally got an agent
and sits at home
knitting, doing needle work
waiting for the call to come.
Mr. Johnston, the phys. ed. teacher
at the school on High street
is sitting outside, right arm raised
prepping for his next lesson
on condom etiquette and control
as a means of keeping the kids
physically active.
Mum and Pop have
franchised
and now walk their lap dog
around and around the park in their
customized, motorized, all weatherized
wheelchairs.
My mother has just won
the Publisher’s Weekly Sweepstakes
and is busy telling me about
her plans to option the house
and make a run on the orange juice market.
Teresa my teenaged daughter
counts the days to business school
convicted, she stumbles through the streets
on 8 inch platforms hoping
her beeper will ring in public.
Mr. Rogers?
He has opened a modelling agency
and is giving speech therapy to
inner city kids on the side.
His new line of clothes comes out next week.
And me?
Like any poet not worth his salt
I’m schleping off all my friends
spending my days picking
between my crusty toes.
I’m buying up all my friend’s
tattered paperbacks and waiting for
all the computers to crash.
Then I’ll have a word or truth to write.
The heart can beat only so fast …………
