Father Scrimshaw’s matted hairdo was
parted by Henrietta, just Henrietta, and Henrietta the Sufferer
has heard only one compliment from Father Scrimshaw
in all the 23 years she has been bringing him his milk and opium milkshakes:
It was the day she wasn’t wearing any panties and she had brought
over two milkshakes, one for him (as was the case every Monday, Tuesday,
Thursday, and Saturday) and one for herself because perhaps he might like
to not dive alone for once, and halfway through their milkshakes and Small Wonder
reruns, Father Scrimshaw turned to Henrietta, just Henrietta, and said
“You smell like gasoline when you smile.”
She about died right there and right then.
Between her legs got really sweaty, though it was a stickiness nothing like sweat,
and she leaned over to Father Scrimshaw and said
“That’s what God used to say to me every morning up until the day I found my son hanging by his belt in the bathroom.”
“My dear Henrietta, just Henrietta,” Father Scrimshaw replied. “That wasn’t God. That was the voice of the bugs crawling all over your belly right now.”
1 comment:
intriguing, and my favorite poem on this blog. there's just something special, for me anyway, about poems that are conversational or monologues - even if i can't assign an interpretation to them right off the bat.
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