Dinner all over town.
Smelts and cabbage,
Swanson Classics,
sweaty casseroles,
swine and Velveeta.
Then the whine of dishwashers
human and mechanical.
Duz, Babbo, Paradise Possibilities,
Cleansing Baby, Good Froth,
The Grease Gestapo, and so forth.
Discontent and confused wives
sort the wash;
not one pair of underwear fit
to hang out the white flag
of surrender
for pus-like stains in front
burnt sienna on the backside,
elastic bands droopy
long since fried in the dryer.
Greyish bras stretched
by child bearing
and corpulence.
Their dead dick and B.B. brain
husbands flop in the recliner
above the basement Laundromat
caressing the clicker
picking out bits of pork chop
from between molars
with a match book cover
invading nostrils, ear canals,
and navels with a pudgy pinky finger.
Unattractive children sadder than
all get out smoke pot in the attic,
snort crank, eat Dopey Dots,
and have simulated sex.
They talk about burning down the house.
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| Portland Idiot by Robert Hand Ferry |
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