1485

Henry gets a rise.

He tells me,

“Nothing like jazz samba,”

pours white wine

down his shirt,

missing the coffee mug,

grinning.

Long week.

I tell Henry I’m a Jeep

and a caterpillar and a

person and a mouse and a

few other things.

Henry says,

“Nothing like jazz samba,”

and drinks

his empty mug.

It’s two in the afternoon,

our lovers are asleep,

and we’ve taken

the canned goods

made a tower,

painted our bodies with

magic marker and grease,

all I have to say

can

is

“isn’t this great, to be

alive and to be able to

move our five legs?”

-

Henry won’t shut up.

He’s on a roll, someone

is getting a rise,

he’s telling me

every time a fly lands on me,

it’s taking a shit.

I tell him I’m a fly too

and not disparage my people.

-

I’m sweating on the porch.

Henry is touching himself to

the labels on the cans,

kissing them,

saying over and over

“Isn’t it great to be

to be alive and to be

held by my one good arm?”

-

When he’s done,

we call our

lovers into the room

and cover them with snow

and jelly. I apologize.

Henry says,

in all seriousness,

there’s nothing quite like

jazz samba

and

I melt into

the rain that never never

comes.