Monday, December 16, 2019

David Alpaugh, SNOW JOB


Er_si_g M_. St_nisl_us Po_ch_gi_n, 
image by Daniel Y. Harris 




SNOW JOB                                               

I’ll go back—damn ye!—
to whatever time & place
I give a shit about:

LIKE SHOVELING SNOW.
Time? Place? TMI! You don’t need
to know. Chance of stopping me?
ZERO, ZILCH, NADA & NONE.

Blizzard over. Doorbell rings.
“Like your walk & driveway shoveled?”
“How much?” “3 bucks.” “How bout 2?”

So I’ll be a-shovlin (damn ye!) and you
should kiss my 7-year-old-age-of-reason
arse for my service both to the community
and to the Holy Ghost and his Archangels.

Because Mr. Poochigian, who died from
an embolism Monday, was able to hobble
to Mass Sunday, so did NOT commit the
mortal sin that would’ve sent him to hell
where he’d now be burning—Eternally!

For two bucks! Now that’s value. Were he here
(thank whatever gods there be he ain’t)—your
favorite pitchman would call that Big Savings!

And here’s a 99% discount code if you wish to take
advantage of this poem: 1234567. That’s 1234567.

Failed       > Do the math, damn ye! Bought 5 bags of M&Ms,
poets         >  (melted in my mouth not in my hand), 4 boxes of
proudly    >  Good & Plenty, 3 Snickers, a box of Milk Duds,
call            >  2 Bonomo Turkish Taffies (for my sister Flavia),
this            >  7 Zagnuts, 3 O’Henry bars, 4 boxes of Raisinets,
WASTE    > 6 boxes of Canada Mints, and 8 packs of Chuckles
of time      >  (ate red, green, yellow, orange; threw licorice into
a LIST!     >  the bushes while biking through Cedarbrook park).

Studied     > Do the math, damn ye: 40 x .05¢ = 2 bucks.
TRIG at   >  Earnings well spent—from our family dentist
MIT and  >  Roy Sermak’s point of view. Don’t waste time
passed       >  searching for Roy on Facebook or AnyWho.
with a       >  (He’d be 109 years old, were he still alive,
D-minus   >  and would not be accepting appointments.)

And if you’re a Montaigne-esque skeptic
& don’t believe I scraped Poochie’s walk
clean-down to the last unique snowflake
(actually, I found 2 that were utterly alike)
and if you won’t admit value received both
by the Pooch & me (that dark wintry day)
then, damn ye, I have nothing more to say!

Because you don’t have a ghost-of-a-clue
as to how to evaluate—A SNOW JOB.

Note 1. Mr. Stanislaus Poochigian (b. 1922)
fought at Guadalcanal & was wounded both
in his right arm and left leg, earning him two
Purple Hearts. The chance of Sloss being able
to shovel out on his own to avoid a little thing
like Damnation? Zero, Zilch, Nada & None.

Note 2: Readers born twixt 1930 and 1955 will
grok to my sugared swing down memory lane.
Post-60s tykes will doubtless find said lane full
of potholes so are urged to avoid an arduous trek
and the grueling trick-oh-no-metrics that follow.

Note 3. Charter school teachers who want to
use my new math as a historical teaching aid
will be thrilled to know that whoever the hell
this poet is—or pretends to be—he asserts no
© Copyright on any word or number herein.
(Plagiarists are advised that all candy brands
are trademarked—so an ® sign must always
be appended to each item to avoid criminal
prosecution & potentially devastating fines.)

Note 4. I anguished for years, trying to decide
whether to entitle this poudrin SNOW JOB or
THE POEM THAT COMMITS SUICIDE.
I’m having second thoughts, so, if you prefer
the latter-day title, please delete the former in
your .docx, .rtf or other Word file and paste in
THE POEM THAT COMMITS SUICIDE.

Note 5. Alas, I cannot count on Millennials or
GenXers to be familiar with the word poudrin
(see Note four). My online dictionary defines
it as “The falling to earth of any form of water
(rain or snow or hail or sleet or mist).” Sounds
like the sort of shit that never keeps “couriers”
at the US Postal Service from their ROUNDS.

Note 6: To cover my ass, my attorney (Bernie)
insists I inform you that my 99% discount offer
will expire at 2:27 A.M. on August 31st, 2985.
Don’t miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime offer.
Remember the code: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7. Call NOW!


—David Alpaugh

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