Well, There Was This Man…
A dozen bodies huddle in one front room.
They bunch on sofas, armchairs, one pouffe and carpet;
huddle against rain that drives cold thoughts at the window,
that creates new lakes with new boundaries
on tennis courts across the road.
Bags are piled in the hallway
with zips that seal odors of sweated whites.
Tennis done. Jokes begun.
“Did you hear the one about the Irishman,
the Albanian and the Chinaman?”
“Who's next?”
“I've got one. It's a bit rude.”
We are all friends here – huddled.
We like rude.
Bawdy laughter. Dirty images. Smut sifting from
a deep, soft portion of the mind.
We come to Benny - Benny's turn.
Make us laugh Benny against the hammer of the rain.
He grins as only chartered accountants do;
his head full of numbers but low on words.
He giggles to cover uncertainty.
Well there was this man, he says,
and we laugh heartier than at any punch line heard.
So he giggles again.
Well there was this man, he repeats like a chartered accountant.
We laugh hard because Benny said it.
Only dear Benny could put it like that.
He tries again;
the same words as dry as cardboard.
He giggles. We laugh.
Now mirth hurts, makes us cry,
spreads like bird flu, hopping
from one tear stained face to the next,
and he never said more than,
“Well, there was this man.”
- Graham Burchell
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Lessons
- Cara Alson
The joy and wonder of being lost...
- Cara Alson
Going to the Garden
- Peggy Woodruff
How Brown Now, Mom?
- Nancy Fierstien
Astral Projection
- Pamela Lynn Palmer
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