You better think

Ask Aretha, the Queen of Soul

Dear Aretha

The tree in my landlord’s garden groans

with luscious red apples I find

irresistible. My boyfriend says I should

find a hobby, maybe take up weaving or

herpetology. He makes excuses when I ask

to meet his family, brings his work home

naming all the birds of the air, beasts

of the forest, and fish of the sea. Is this guy

worth it?  Gamine in Gondwana

Gamine

Dump the chump yesterday, bake yourself

a pie and set it on the sill to cool. Snag

yourself a deity with some of that low

hanging bait.  

Dear Aretha

I’m career military, a man of average height, endowed

with modest ambition. My wife, my lover, my muse

is never satisfied. For her, an empire, but all I ever get

is nag, nag, nag. I’m planning a short excursion east

through the steppe, destination, a city renowned

for hospitable summer weather, but nights, they say,

can be rather chilly. I’m loath to pack too much,  

but my love insists I bring a sweater. What say you? 

Peevish In Paree

Peeved

A Parisian lover? Why go do a fool thing

like leave? I smell major daddy issues. Pack

warm socks and long johns for the long haul.

Dear Aretha

After a protracted, somewhat messy struggle

to disengage from a distant, insufferably paternalistic

benefactor, our board of directors nominated me

to head the organization. It’s a company town,

and they sweetened the deal by naming it after Moi,

but I’ve been having this dream. Forty-four men

queued up behind me stretching back to the horizon.

Some good, others not so much. All white, thank God,

although Forty-Four does look dusky shadowed against a sun

setting in a hellish lake of fire. Forty-Five I can just make out

before I wake up in a cold sweat, heart hammering

Yankee Doodle Dandy. I blame these infernal

wooden teeth. Do you know a good orthodontist?

Sleepless In Foggy Bottom    

Foggy B

Get your hands on some melatonin, try

tincture of CBD oil on those tender gums,

and go on back to sleep. Forty-four and done,

honey, ain’t a bad run.   

Dear Aretha

Let’s just say I’m the creator of a popular

comic strip still in universal syndication,

drawn, inked and penned by yours truly all

these years. I was always doodling in school,

working up characters in order to put them

into impossible situations, crowning kings

when I wasn’t killing off innocents, dangling a life

line only to reel it in again and again, heroes

and villains, martyrs and fools, all for

my own amusement. Imagine my surprise

when the thing took off––now don’t get me

wrong, the houses, cars and women, well,

you of all people––but lately I’ve just been

phoning it in, recycling old bits, relying

on shtick while yearning to be taken seriously

as an artiste. I’m mulling over an insane

franchise offer from Disney. Should I counter?

Look Not Upon Me

LNUM

Who you think you’re fooling? I know

your work and it ain’t been worth a good

goddamn for Lord I don’t know how long.

It ain’t no Calvin and Hobbes, that’s for sure.

Know what I’m saying? Take the money

and run.