The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age

    House

    By Oxy Mora on Wed, 06/27/2012 - 1:27pm |

     

    Instead of fixing his teeth,

    going on a diet,

    and quitting the fantasy 

    that he is

    sixteen again,

    he is obsessively

    projecting upon me

    imagined ills, like

    a roof needing repair,

    and sills slowly decaying.

    He has removed 5 tons

    of my best wood lath

    and plaster,

    turning four rooms

    into one,

    egad,

    exposing

    to the light of day

    my eight by eight hemlocks,

    I feel quite quite dressed down.

    In vain I tried 

    to teach him---

    by a well-timed draught,

    a soothing rumble

    in the attic, or

    a door suddenly slammed---

    that I was meant 

    to care for him,

    not the other way around. 

     

     

    Comments

    An unexpected pleasure.  I had clicked expecting a discussion of the House vote tomorrow on holding Eric Holder in contempt, and instead got this sweet poem.

    Thanks.

     

    P.S.  Just in case ...

     


    by MrSmith1 on Wed, 06/27/2012 - 11:16pm

    Thanks, Mr. Smith.  I enjoyed your graphic. I'm not sure that Democrats walking out of the House, as is expected, is going to be a great image.

    About the poem, if you've ever lived in an old house you can come to believe it has it's own soul. On the slamming door, this actually happened. A lady friend and I were having one of those crazy arguments which could have led to a quick trip to the airport and another failed relationship. Just at the moment a door swung completely shut and startled both of us as  there was no draft, etc. Within a few minutes we had regained our sanity and went out to dinner. 


    by Oxy Mora on Thu, 06/28/2012 - 1:24pm