Unbuttoned.

 

“Scratch my back” I asked my wife.

But when I turned to her she wasn’t there.

I got up and went into the kids’ bedroom.

“Hey, have you seen your mother?” I asked them.

But there were no kids. And it wasn’t a bedroom.

It was the garage, with a green plastic barrel

Full of greasy washers.

It smelled harsh and cold.

I buttoned the cuffs on my long sleeve shirt.

Propriety is important during a crisis.

But it made no sense,

Since I had to immediately unbutton them

To roll up my sleeves to move the greasy

Barrel of washers into a corner.

So I could open the trapdoor.

At the bottom of the trapdoor stairs

I found a magic abalone shell.

My one wish was to have a clean oven

Again.

The shell spun around, then puffed

Out yellow smoke.

When I went back upstairs to check the oven

I discovered I had no kitchen. Just a hotplate

On a gate leg table on the sun porch.

But the sun refused to shine.

This wasn’t very strange because

A permanent eclipse was taking place --

Congress refused to release funds 

To end it.

I guess my mail-in ballot never 

Got through.

My back still itched something fierce,

So I found a long shoehorn to use.

It worked fine.

But now I’m worried about that barrel

Of greasy washers.

They don’t belong to me. I have to turn

Them in.

But to whom? I don’t have a receipt.

I could be accused of theft. Or worse.

Of a hate crime. 

I’m leaving immediately for Uruguay. They 

Have no extradition treaty with the United 

States. 

I guess it’s a good thing after all 

I don’t seem to have any family.

They’d slow me down shopping

For souvenirs.