There Goes Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

 

Ted Gacy across the street

has dug up his backyard

and is holding a coming out party

as soon as the smell lessens.

He’s exhibiting downtown next week.

 

John Done, the alcoholic

on the cardboard, on the corner

sold his bottle collection

just before the crash

and now sells juicers

on the info-channel.

 

J.C. Pennyless has

moved to Europe and become

a money changer

after having a miraculous conception

while converting

funds for the church

of some later day saint.

 

Molly, the prostitute

finally got an agent

and sits at home

knitting, doing needle work

waiting for the call to come.

 

Mr. Johnston, the phys. ed. teacher

at the school on High street

is sitting outside, right arm raised

prepping for his next lesson

on condom etiquette and control

as a means of keeping the kids

physically active.

 

Mum and Pop have

franchised

and now walk their lap dog

around and around the park in their

customized, motorized, all weatherized

wheelchairs.

 

My mother has just won

the Publisher’s Weekly Sweepstakes

and is busy telling me about

her plans to option the house

and make a run on the orange juice market.

 

Teresa my teenaged daughter

counts the days to business school

convicted, she stumbles through the streets

on 8 inch platforms hoping

her beeper will ring in public.

 

Mr. Rogers?

He has opened a modelling agency

and is giving speech therapy to

inner city kids on the side.

His new line of clothes comes out next week.

 

And me?

Like any poet not worth his salt

I’m schleping off all my friends

spending my days picking

between my crusty toes.

I’m buying up all my friend’s

tattered paperbacks and waiting for

all the computers to crash.

Then I’ll have a word or truth to write.

 

The heart can beat only so fast …………

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