THE POET FINDS HIS ACTRESS
“God,” he gulped, tearing down his pants, “I wanna be the third of your
five husbands-the one…”
“Oh! Honey! Yes! You!” She opened in love, in trust, beneath him. “The
one who makes the funeral arrangements!”
“Give me a beer!” Tom who wants to be a painter said, coming in and
pounding his fist on the good wood of the bar.
“It’s done man. We’re doing it. We’re doing the divorce. Two fucking
years. I feel sentient and lean for the first time in a year and ten
“Now I need to find me a girl and get down to work.”
Lately, on the street, at the bank, I’ve been seeing guys who look like
Karl—two last week and then, today, another one.
He must be coming home soon.