Coming back from the scrap yard
I saw Amy Schumer riding shotgun
In the rusted out white Explorer
Next to my car as we stopped at
West 65th and Clark. I doubt very
Much it was the “real” Amy
Schumer who lately has made
Overt raunchiness a profitable
Gig. But she certainly resembled
The star. Could with a little
Makeup, some dental care, a bath,
And getting rid of that Dollar
Store baby blue clip holding her
Hair away from her face easily
Work some “look alike” circuit,
Make plenty more to afford
Better wheels. Her driver, a paunchy
Bearded dude, didn’t quite nail
The Harley man, looking too
Much disheveled, more hobo
Than cyclist, he should stay
with the Explorer. This is a
Diverse neighborhood where
People plowing their red Mercedes
SLs are worth several millions
And others who are worth what
They pick from somebody’s
Garbage. Some don’t own
Just their buildings but blocks
All around their buildings whose
Faces have appeared in Vanity Fair.
The couple who gave the Cleveland
Art Museum its branch at W29
And Church are buying a warehouse
Overlooking the lake. They’ll have
More than five thousand square feet
On the third floor to make into
Their humble home and the building
Will flourish with chi-chi shoppes
And avant grade startups, you
Betcher boots. I’m not thinking
Of any of that. My cat Sophia
Did not come home last night
And has not shown up yet today.
I can’t hear her mewing behind
The thick front doors of this old
Paint-peeling treasure so I’ve
Been checking, hoping each time
She’ll trundle in as if nothing’s
Happened in her usual way. So far
I must have opened the door
Fifty times since seven last night.
Barely slept but each time I went
To the can I went down the front
Staircase, popped the door, and
Looked out, stupidly whispering
So as not to wake the neighbors,
“Sophia, Sophia, get your silly
Ass back in here before I go nuts.”
I once thought I loved a woman
Whose cat ran away about the same
Time she was breaking it off with
Me. He was gone for weeks but
Finally turned up locked in her
Neighbor’s garage. I wrote a
“Closure poem”* for the cat and
The relationship, sent it along
With a couple cans of cat food.
So I know they can come back.
Besides the weather’s mild right
Now. Dear Ms. Schumer, dear
Zillionaires, should you see my
Cat, please tell her to get her
Furry butt and short tail the
Hell on home.
c. J.S.Manista, 2015
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