The Live-in -- Part 1 of 3
Six months gone now since that dark night, I was kitchen-bound for a bite
Hoping I in icebox there a slice of pumpkin pie could score –
While I searched, I heard a ringing, an insistent ding-a-linging,
Louder than my smartphone’s pinging, ringing two times, three times, four.
“Midnight visitor?” I pondered, thinking thoughts who and wherefor
Might so late darken my door.
‘Twas Thanksgiving, I remember (that’s a Thursday in November,
When a turkey we dismember and feast ‘pon its roasted gore).
After hungry tummies sating, all the world’s ills debating,
Rival football fans berating (hating all that they stand for),
Quasi-comatose from eating, stomachs larger than before,
We our sofas did explore.
Hedonistic urges waning, o’erindulgences disdaining,
Bade me, made me promise ne’er to gorge myself as theretofore.
But then hours after feeding, came I more pie wanting, needing,
To my id defeat conceding, salivating pie-wedge for,
Wandered I then tart-ward going, in post-poultry-binge torpor
When heard I the bell of door.
Intent on not delaying, stumbled I toward door saying,
“Why on God’s green earth would one so late be found afront my door?
For as bell you were attacking, I intent was on pie snacking,
And was it from fridge unpacking, smacking lips in thoughts of more,
Late-night nosh you’ve interrupted” – I unlocked and opened door;
There a sight I did abhor.
To my eyes so unappealing as to set my mind a-reeling,
Frantic thoughts of what to do about it pierced me to my core,
Eons passed – me disbelieving, praying eyes were me deceiving,
Why and wherefor not conceiving, whispered ‘gainst hope I, “Lenore?!?”
No two syllables together said had ever pained me more
Than those two said at my door.
There upon the doorstep standing, unpaid taxi fare demanding,
Wearing something that no fashion magazine had seen before,
Umpteen suitcases, a handbag, enough perfume to cause me to gag
(Call it Eau de Camphored Dishrag), welcome as a herpes sore,
With a scowl to scare Torquemada, and a stare like molten ore,
My wife’s mother, named Lenore.
Copyright ©
Daniel Beus
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