Dreaded McGarpley

Dreaded McGarpley

Boll McGarpley is
comin’ back from work
any soon now.

Troglodyte Fairy
(she’s not so bad),
thin & boney…
He makes her
get in sequince

keeping her company
in his Bozo underwear.

We made “their
fish sticks sorta”
but only the
human cat
will eat ’em.

The human cat
is white &
fleshy in spots,
thick &
egotistical,
but hides
under the chair skirt
whenever
McGarpley gets home
and doffs
his soup bowl wig
and expects us to admire
the tan on his
protruding-from-cutaway-sweatshirt
belly.

But any second now,
he’ll be home

and the sailor suit monkey
will hafta turn on
the stereo hologram
of himself,
the monkey invented,
to divert any
thrown pillows
‘with his name on ’em’;

and the furry, grey
half log man
will have to rise
from the old carpet
& crawl
like a mantis
to his own haven;

and the bear-y bodied aliens
will have to serve him
drinks
with their long
arm-neck hands

when McGarpley gets home
and asks for nothing
and is not so intimidating
after all.

And Trog Fairy
points instead
to Greaubreujian
who has just slipped in,
shambling in his long green coat,
the eyelets in his foot and
plastic, see-throo shoe tops
trailing green foam
with every step

and asks McGarpley,
“how work was?”
(he’s bad with grammar).

That is:
how does he like driving
that noisy music van
with the claghorn speakers
and commercialized love paint
up & down the rubble strewn streets
keeping all of us up all day?
(But never daring to say that part).

Boll, pulling up
the uncomfortable plastic
blue dog spoon
from under his seat,
says,

“same ol’, same ol’ ”.

_________________–grimes  8/’87; 7/’015