Musings by The Poet Loriet
Make And Model
Box fans
hum-drum noisily,
the oscillating blades
offer little relief
from the sweltering humidity
of a June-bug evening.
Lying drained,
she pats the sweat-laden
tendrils that mat her forehead,
and dampen the back of her neck.
"Hey baby girl,
you seen my lighter?"
She glares in the direction
of his gruff voice,
then pushes her whale of a belly
skyward as the baby protests.
Waddling over to where he's perched
in his deeeeeee-luxe La-Z-Boy,
she swerves to avoid his hairy hands,
greasy from working in the garage,
but they inevitably smack her bottom.
"Wouldya get me a brewski too...
as long as you're up?"
He grins, something green,
slimy stuck in yellowed teeth.
She rolls her eyes.
He is in a good mood, she thinks.
She ponders him for a moment,
from a safe distance...
He guffaws at the bawdy TV comic,
unshaven and unkempt,
outfitted in an unflattering
pair of gaping boxers
and his wife-beater shirt--
you know the kind,
Hanes,
ribbed white tank,
inspected by #57...
She remembers prom night,
how with stars in her eyes
she fell hard for him,
spread-eagled on sticky vinyl,
and he fell too,
on top (of course),
missionarily manhandling her.
He whispered
makeshift promises
in the backseat
of a candy apple red
Chevrolet...
Oh, how she wished
she had married
a Ford Man!
Lori Beal
hum-drum noisily,
the oscillating blades
offer little relief
from the sweltering humidity
of a June-bug evening.
Lying drained,
she pats the sweat-laden
tendrils that mat her forehead,
and dampen the back of her neck.
"Hey baby girl,
you seen my lighter?"
She glares in the direction
of his gruff voice,
then pushes her whale of a belly
skyward as the baby protests.
Waddling over to where he's perched
in his deeeeeee-luxe La-Z-Boy,
she swerves to avoid his hairy hands,
greasy from working in the garage,
but they inevitably smack her bottom.
"Wouldya get me a brewski too...
as long as you're up?"
He grins, something green,
slimy stuck in yellowed teeth.
She rolls her eyes.
He is in a good mood, she thinks.
She ponders him for a moment,
from a safe distance...
He guffaws at the bawdy TV comic,
unshaven and unkempt,
outfitted in an unflattering
pair of gaping boxers
and his wife-beater shirt--
you know the kind,
Hanes,
ribbed white tank,
inspected by #57...
She remembers prom night,
how with stars in her eyes
she fell hard for him,
spread-eagled on sticky vinyl,
and he fell too,
on top (of course),
missionarily manhandling her.
He whispered
makeshift promises
in the backseat
of a candy apple red
Chevrolet...
Oh, how she wished
she had married
a Ford Man!
Lori Beal
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Make And Model
Make And Model
