She was a washed-up comedy writer
whose life was always taking serious turns,
turning her security-seeking self into a risk-taking one
because circumstances kept giving her no choice.
She drove a car with several dings that had given her cha-ching,
though now she could only open the doors from the outside,
so heaven help her if those windows quit working.
She lived on continental breakfasts at random hotels
& fancy leftovers from board meetings,
but never did the water that ran yellow
through the Pensacola pipes pass her lips,
for even though she may have been all washed up,
she had inadvertently made it happen
with the best Olay body wash her coupons could practically buy.
He was a nosy reporter,
she, a mouthy writer,
they not only captured the smells & tastes
of the world around them,
but they beat every lawsuit for slander & libel
that was leveled against them.
With his nose for news
& her gift of gab,
they leveled their opponents so swiftly,
they didn’t know what hit them,
though if anyone asked,
they would say it felt like
18 wheels & a dozen benders.
the clients were always ruder,
the women, fatter,
& his workday worse than the day before.
According to her,
her grandmother had played Sarah on The Andy Griffith Show,
her father was an illegitimate direct descendant of Diamond Jim Brady,
& she, the reincarnation of Bettie Page before her pin-up years.
Being tellers of big windies,
they always tried to blow the other away
with their vast stores of hot air,
so that as their stories got taller,
their credibility got smaller
& their notoriety got bigger.
When they realized the diamond mine they had
in spinning tangled yarns,
they made money cranking out fake memoirs—
paid for by GoFundMe accounts.