4.03.2012

Comedic Timing; or, At Least I'm Not the Only One

He almost resembles
a humanized Muppet
a caricature of himself
a beer-soaked plumber of sixty
with white hair wrapped
around a shiny, liver-spotted dome.
Words jiggle through
his loose-skinned throat
with an elder's authority
that can't be faked convincingly
by a cocksure youngbuck.
In every other sentence
he refers to the listener as 'guy'
a trademark poorly reproduced
by impersonators in the local.
The Silver Bullet next to him
on the counter
has freed his lips
to share with the grateful stranger
who's doing the dishes
for the third night this week.

"It's almost time to call the bride,"
he confesses to the can
and whoever else is listening.
What's not to admire
about that quaint expression?
It keeps their love young, makes
the matrimony seem as fresh
as yesterday's bad news.
"Twenty-five years
and we've never had an argument..."
he brags while his pale blue eyes lock
with a set of dark marbles
trying not to flinch
with Heineken and envy.
"...That I've won."

The kitchen roars
with sympathetic laughter
or it does in this sterile placebo
while the hen-pecked victor
proceeds to tap the Rockies.

All is as it should be.
We mortal men are tamed.
Somewhere in the distance
a fox outruns its tail.

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