Micropoetry Monday: Absurdity


D.D. Wentworth was the thrift store queen
who could always be found scraping
the bottom of the bargain bin
with her ShowBiz Pizza token.
She didn’t have 2 nickels to rub together
to make fire,
but she did have a penny
with a buffalo facing the wrong way
& a 3-dollar bill
with a mustachioed Gerber baby on it.
The millions she secretly accrued,
she left to her fat cat,
& things such as funny money,
she left to her community.
The Wentworthless Museum
was erected in her honor,
where a furry, lifelike sculpture of a calico
is encased in a glass coffin,
or rather,
a glass case—
a penny over one eye,
a token on the other,
& a dollar bill between its teeth.

Mick Grady had always yearned to be 1 of them,
secretly dating his hot TV mother & sister
& rubbing out Cousin Oliver.
He always believed the grass was greener
on the other side,
which, when he pole-vaulted over,
turned out to be a vintage-colored Far Side,
for there was no grass but simply Astroturf,
which was why the dog—
whose name was of a different animal—
ran off,
because just as there was no toilet for humans,
there wasn’t one for pooches either.

He ran a blood bank,
she, a sperm bank.
He liked his women Type A,
Type B,
or a combination of both,
but Type O’s were mistakes;
she liked men
who were more inclined to withdraw
than make a deposit,
which created too many dividends—
too many carbon footprints.
He saw the people who came in
as saving lives,
even as she saw the men who came in
as creating more problems
because for her,
more people equaled more problems,
not more people to solve them.

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