Sunday, March 4, 2012

lalo kikiriki

The Musician's Wife's Tale

Who says April is the cruelest month? – try August.

Parched, I go to the fridge
to score a Seagram's cooler
(I relish those sweet red drinks they call
though they're neither)
and there's not even one left!
You've drunk them all or served them to your
derelict musician friends and,
in their place,
(as if I wouldn't notice)
have stocked
a bitter dark ale
or something equally vile.
At first I'm pissed,
then I remember
my secret stash
in the downstairs icebox,
behind the drywall and the plywood sheets
you never managed to turn into
a studio,
and that reminds me to get pissed again.
But I move aside the building materials,
open the icebox door, and DAMN!
you've got to those drinks, too,
and replaced them
with a rancid goat's head
you've been saving
from the last cabrita feast
for your album cover.
I head for the knife drawer…
Then I hear your Harley
roar into the drive…
"Hey, babe come see what I gotcha!"
and there's that ruby glint
at the top of the stairs.
I grab the fourpack, thinking,
"you just saved your life,"
"Hi boys" I smile,
as the rest of the band
files by.

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