Widow Jones
Wad a wet dishrag into a tight ball,
set it in the sun and after it dries,
spread it out. The skin on the back
of her hands didn’t always look
like that but that was long ago,
when her hair was long, blonde and…
She put her hands in her pockets,
sat down hard with a grunt on the
porch steps and tugged at faded
red rubber knee-high boots.
A dusty pink ball cap, yellow gloves
and blue cloth zipper jacket were piled
beside her and damn, the thing she
missed most after riding the mower
around the yard in hot circles for hours
was a husband to help pull off snug boots.
Get ‘em off and he could have all the
Jack Daniels he wanted and play euchre
all night long she said aloud to herself,
pushing back sweaty wisps of white hair.
At 76 it helped to have a man around,
at least once a week for yard work.
(The other stuff don’t count for much).
She sighed.
Didn’t really want help with the boots;
needed a man to mow the five acres
so she wouldn’t have to wear red boots
in the first place.
Just common sense.
Death Of A Flower
She cheated on her ten-year marriage
so her husband divorced her which made
beautiful, beautiful Maggie sad, withdrawing
into fetishes and otherworldlinesses
while her ex quickly married a co-worker,
causing Maggie intense melancholy,
enough to begin online dating and soon
to marry a rich, rich older man
who lived in an ignominious state
a thousand miles away, positively uncivilized,
but whose checks always cleared.
It was an efficient, small ceremony at which
the witness was a stranger from the street.
An impromptu reception was held
at nearby Cranky Jack’s Bar & Grill,
with about thirty acquaintances showing up
to congratulate the newlyweds and send them
on their way to that godforsaken state
about a thousand miles away.
But here’s the strange thing: amidst the bonhomie
and of course open bar free drinks,
there was not one physically attractive person.
They were all homely, ugly, or, on a good day,
nondescript.
What are the odds of that?
Soon all there was to sense,
all there was to remember,
all that remained was
the scent of the flower.
Brief Bio: Perhaps (or perhaps not) Gene McCormick is the secret illegitimate son of a former U.S. President and his box office movie queen lady inamorata. Tipoff Clue: He votes regularly and frequently goes to the movies. He also lives in Wayne, Illinois, birthplace of seventeen U.S. presidents.
Wad a wet dishrag into a tight ball,
set it in the sun and after it dries,
spread it out. The skin on the back
of her hands didn’t always look
like that but that was long ago,
when her hair was long, blonde and…
She put her hands in her pockets,
sat down hard with a grunt on the
porch steps and tugged at faded
red rubber knee-high boots.
A dusty pink ball cap, yellow gloves
and blue cloth zipper jacket were piled
beside her and damn, the thing she
missed most after riding the mower
around the yard in hot circles for hours
was a husband to help pull off snug boots.
Get ‘em off and he could have all the
Jack Daniels he wanted and play euchre
all night long she said aloud to herself,
pushing back sweaty wisps of white hair.
At 76 it helped to have a man around,
at least once a week for yard work.
(The other stuff don’t count for much).
She sighed.
Didn’t really want help with the boots;
needed a man to mow the five acres
so she wouldn’t have to wear red boots
in the first place.
Just common sense.
Death Of A Flower
She cheated on her ten-year marriage
so her husband divorced her which made
beautiful, beautiful Maggie sad, withdrawing
into fetishes and otherworldlinesses
while her ex quickly married a co-worker,
causing Maggie intense melancholy,
enough to begin online dating and soon
to marry a rich, rich older man
who lived in an ignominious state
a thousand miles away, positively uncivilized,
but whose checks always cleared.
It was an efficient, small ceremony at which
the witness was a stranger from the street.
An impromptu reception was held
at nearby Cranky Jack’s Bar & Grill,
with about thirty acquaintances showing up
to congratulate the newlyweds and send them
on their way to that godforsaken state
about a thousand miles away.
But here’s the strange thing: amidst the bonhomie
and of course open bar free drinks,
there was not one physically attractive person.
They were all homely, ugly, or, on a good day,
nondescript.
What are the odds of that?
Soon all there was to sense,
all there was to remember,
all that remained was
the scent of the flower.
Brief Bio: Perhaps (or perhaps not) Gene McCormick is the secret illegitimate son of a former U.S. President and his box office movie queen lady inamorata. Tipoff Clue: He votes regularly and frequently goes to the movies. He also lives in Wayne, Illinois, birthplace of seventeen U.S. presidents.
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