the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 462, Feb. 10, 2004
James D. Corrothers (1869–1919)
“He’s a man of vision. He
rides the bus
And dreams of one day owning a portable
metal yard shed…
Oh, the universe is unlimited.”
—Shari Elf, “Tenderness vs. Watering the lawn backwards” from the
album I’m Forcing Goodness Upon You (http://www.sharielf.com)
I needed a device to record telephone interviews, so
I went to the Radio Shack on 10th Street, where a large lumpy guy in a cheap suit
(let’s call him Denny)I presented me with a range of options: At the low end,
you have a simple suction-cup thing that puckers onto the back of your handset
and plugs into a recording device (sold separately). At the other end of the
price/performance spectrum is an integrated Phone Cassette Recorder (Catalogue
#43-473) that lists for a penny less than a hundred dollars. Denny had one of
these attached to the phone behind the counter.
“I got a couple of them,” he said, folding his arms,
a gesture full of Midwestern significance. By folding his arms Denny was
signaling that there was a damn good reason that he owned two integrated Phone
Cassette Recorders. I gave him my surprised face, eyebrows raised just enough
to indicate that my curiosity was piqued.
“It’s called ex-wives,” he said.
My surprised face got stuck, one raised eyebrow
quavering slightly. Denny couldn’t have been more than 35 and he couldn’t have
been less attractive if he stank like fish.
“I got this one set up here ‘cause sometimes she
likes to call me and yeh-yeh-yeh,” he said, one hand making the duck-billed
International Sign of the Nagging Spouse. “People are a lot more polite when
they know they’re being recorded.”
I said, “I guess that’s what we found out with the
whole Rodney King business.”
Denny gave me his “I don’t know what the hell you’re
talking about” face.
Lee Ingalls is a
Kansas City writer. He edits the monthly newspaper Discover Mid-America
and does commercial voiceover work.
Today’s poem:
By Bill Bauer
The storage closet where he hid his
nightmares,
the closet with the wooden box,
where he kept his uniform and jungle
boots,
he always left slightly opened because,
like the criminal he was and wasn't,
he craved to be caught, craved to be set
free.
The shadow inside wanted someone to peek
in,
wanted everyone to turn away.
Dark in there.
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