caped god

Friday, August 26, 2016

Jane Bigelow’s June bungalow
bears comparison to her winter hut but
isn’t the same: “Fewer sewers,”
she explains, showing no regard
for Beauregard, her Crohn’s-afflicted
boy-toy. “Too many bones
to upgrade,” she adds, pleasingly
sequentially, then, as if parenthetically,
“I pee infrequently.” But what if it rains?
“Oh, I’ve great storm drains, got ‘em
used from Roy Cleveland Nuse.”
The late Pennsylvania impressionist?
Yes, turns out Jane and Roy
were thick as thieves at one point,
their darkling hours marked by
the overpowering schadenfreude
crime TV delivers the way Pizza Hut
delivers meats and cheeses baked
into dough circles—or the way seamen
catch Zs in fo’c’s’les. “Flaunt ‘em
if you got ‘em,” spouts Jane jubilantly,
but one sees two seas of teardrops
coalescing in her withered conjunctiva.
“I should’ve stayed up north,” she burbles,
and then the dikes burst forth. There,
there, old dawdler. We know it’s hard.
Go back into your bungalow, and please:
Give our regards to Beauregard.

• • •


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