A pound of lambs

"Give me a pound of lambs" said the short balding man in the brown leather coat.
He was standing in my kitchen while I ate a ham salad sandwich. I hadn't seen him come in.
I was resigned more than surprised or angry at his appearance; my wife refuses to let me lock the doors. She is from North Dakota, where it's against the law to install a domestic deadbolt. So we get all sorts of lunatics seeping into our place.
I did not feel the need to respond to the short balding man in the brown leather coat. He, apparently, did not feel the need to repeat his request. It was a standoff, then. I ate my sandwich, he stood there -- all five-foot-two of him.

When my wife came in I was drinking a glass of horchata. The short balding man in the brown leather coat gave her a start.
"Cripes!" she yelled.
"Give me a pound of lambs" said the man.
"Who's this?" she asked me.
"Dunno" I said, rinsing my glass in the sink. "He showed up while I was eating my lunch. I didn't offer him anything to eat, by the way."
"What's his name?" she asked me, her mouth forming an unpleasant moue.
"Dunno" I said as I wiped down the counter top. "I'm not encouraging him with inquiries." 
"Give me a pound of lambs" said Shorty, as I had decided to call him. His voice was neither irritating nor soothing. Everything about him invited a mild dyslexia.
I offered to make Suzy, my wife, a ham salad sandwich, but she silently pulled a container of yogurt out of the fridge and sat next to me spooning it into her mouth. I could sense she wanted to tell me something unpleasant. 

"Give me a pound of lambs." I noticed Shorty's shoelaces were untied, and frayed. I wondered if he would leave if I asked him to leave. Well, I wouldn't ask him. It was Suzy's bright idea to keep the house unlocked; she could ask him to leave, or fly to the moon, or whatever she wanted.

My back suddenly started to itch. My skin is very dry this time of year. I keep a bamboo backscratcher in the kitchen for dry skin emergencies, so I was vigorously reaching for the sweet spot with it when Suzy told me she had bought a mirror online for six-hundred dollars. 

I immediately had to drop my backscratcher and leave the house, so I wouldn't say unruly and crude things to her. I left my phone behind. Shorty followed me out the kitchen door. I felt sucker-punched. 

We walked to my brother's sign painting shop. He wasn't there, but his assistant let me sit in his office and doodle on some canvas with an old dowel and a bucket of black paint. I should have told him to keep Shorty out, but didn't have enough interest in my own privacy to make the request.

"Give me a pound of lambs." I felt sorely tempted to flick Shorty with some black paint. Then it occurred to me that maybe he was married, too. Maybe he had to run away because his wife had bought a sheep farm. Maybe his wife ate nothing but yogurt, as well. Maybe he was unhappy with himself because he was unhappy with himself. But probably he was just a reiterating imbecile caught in my drift. He symbolized nothing about me, and we had nothing in common. I have always despised brown leather coats. 

My brother came back pretty upset. Our mother was dying, he told me. She was in the hospital right now, tubes running in and out of her, and dying and asking for us. 

"Give me a pound of lambs." 

"Who the hell is that?" my brother asked me.

"My wife's uncle" I said, feeling avenged. 

"Well, c'mon -- we'll take my truck to the hospital. What about the uncle?"

"Oh, he might as well go with us" I said airily. My brother just shook his head and pulled brushes and stepladders out of his truck to make room for us in the cab. 

Mom was pretty bad. Her wrinkled skin lay on her like rows of yarn. Her eyes were gummy. She could talk, but she didn't want to talk. I wanted to hold her hand but she had so many tubes and things attached to both of them that all I could do was pat her on the shoulder. 

"Is she going?" I asked the doctor. He said yes, it could happen pretty soon now. So my brother and I sat in her room amidst all the half-eaten casserole dishes sent by her neighbors, waiting and sniffing.

"That one must be apple cobbler" said my brother, pointing to a white ceramic dish.

"That's gotta be tuna fish casserole" I said, pointing to the tin foil container on the window sill. "I wish someone would push it out."

"Give me a pound of lambs." I'd forgotten Shorty was there. Now was definitely the time to give him the old heave-ho. I buzzed for the nurse. At the sound of Shorty's voice Mom tried to sit up; we helped her.

"Charlie, is that you?" she said weakly. "Is that you, Charlie? I knew you'd come back for me!" She lay back, tears streaming down her face. 

The nurse came in and said "Yes, what is it?"

"My father wants a pound of lambs" I told her.  

  

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times ** Why Pete Buttigieg Annoys His Democratic Rivals ** Remember Family Films? Disney Plus Is Making ’Em Like They Used To ** Spyware Maker NSO Promises Reform but Keeps Snooping.

@llerer  @reidepstein

A small town mayor has become

a Democrat contender;

he's brushing others to the side,

despite their cash and gender.

His last name is a garbled skein

that nobody can utter --

unless you've had a couple snorts,

or grew up with a stutter.

He's harvesting the sour grapes

to make a vintage rare --

and if he wins the White house

he will make the Maltese stare!

****************************

@brooksbarnesNYT

Sure I want some fam'ly films

to keep my kids enthralled.

Something without sex or drugs

or things from rocks that crawled.

But puppy dogs and pixie dust

just ain't my cup of tea;

so while the kids watch Disney Plus,

it's a Mortal Kombat spree . . . 

*****************************

@vindugoel  @nicoleperlroth

All the world's a stage, y'know,

the audience don't leave;

there's always someone snooping

and then laughing up their sleeve.

Companies are promising

no spyware will they make;

and if you do believe that

I've got water you can rake. 

Postcards to Senator Mitt Romney

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post ** Mulvaney asks to join lawsuit over conflicting demands for impeachment testimony ** India’s Supreme Court clears way for a Hindu temple at country’s most disputed religious site ** For migrants giving up on Europe, Greece offers a way out: Voluntary deportation.

@D_Hawk

When you're being pulled in two,

and you don't know what to do,

just repeat this simple phrase:

"Who is it my wages pays?"

This will help you to decide

what to tell, and what to hide.

******************************

@jslaternyc

I think it is extremely odd

the violence we use for God.

As if He needed flesh and bone

to suffer, weep, and always moan.

I think that most religious views

are just a dark satanic ruse

to keep us bickering until

we forget about God's will.

In India or Amsterdam
theology is mostly sham.

***************************

@chicoharlan

Oh, those crafty refugees!
They come and go just as they please.
First they're here and then they're there,
and we get stuck with paying fare!
Why don't they stay put like I do?
I'm satisfied to sit and stew.
Back home they say is terror, yes --
but they don't know the IRS.
Each country has its own designs
for driving us out of our minds . . . 

Postcards to the President

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times -- Happy Friday! What if You Always Had It Off? Why Don’t You? -- Bolton Knows About ‘Many Relevant Meetings’ on Ukraine, Lawyer Says -- Trump Rules Out Complete Rollback of China Tariffs as Talks Continue.

@NirajC

Ah, to work four days a week!

Life would ne'er then look so bleak.

Three day weekends in supply

for long naps or some bonsai.

Friday is a waste just now;

no one comes in anyhow.

Think if Monday, too, were gone;

we would face a brighter dawn!

*******************************

@peterbakernyt

Mr. Bolton's playing coy;

he is such a clever boy.

Does he know enough to harm,

or is he just full of smarm?

Guess we'll never know, unless

he decides to up and 'fess. 

****************************

@arappeport

Sweet and sour is our boss;

sometimes happy, sometimes cross.

Even China can't predict

are they winning, are they licked.

He might give them breaks galore,

or produce a mighty roar.

Trump can never much decide . . . 

is he Jekyll, is he Hyde?

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- House GOP looks to protect Trump by raising doubts about motives of his deputies -- Book by ‘Anonymous’ describes Trump as cruel, inept and a danger to the nation -- Commerce Department aides knew Alabama hurricane forecasters were not responding to Trump, but still rebuked them.

@karoun @rachaelmbade

When the people make a fuss,

throw your staff beneath the bus.

One by one they walk the plank,

so your record stays a blank.

This is how you operate

if your mind is second-rate. 

***************************************

@PhilipRucker

Anonymous, anonymous;

that word is sure synonymous

with sneaks and cheats and cowards, too,

who don't want their name you to view.

Such books, without a nom de plume,

have no place in a good newsroom.

***************************************

@capitalweather  @afreedma

Let's confess that when it rains

the White House man ain't got much brains;

he forecasts weather like a schnook

and never elocution took --

so when he prates of hurricanes

you'd best put on your tire chains,

cuz it gets deep and if you squawk --

or if you don't -- you'll get a knock.

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times -- Trump Is Fighting So Many Legal Battles, It’s Hard to Keep Track -- Bernie Sanders Is Flush With Cash. Here’s How He Plans to Spend It. -- Queen Elizabeth II Will Go Fur Free .

@peterbakernyt

Trump has got more lawyer's fees

than a dog has ticks and fleas.

Soon the law schools will endorse

"Suing Trump" as a new course.

How much longer can 'il duce'

 circumvent the hangman's noose?

*********************

@reidepstein  @melbournecoal

Bernie Sanders, buddy boy,

how about you spread some joy

and share out a little dough

to the legions of the po.

Don't you buy more TV ads --

Pampers give to single dads.

Stay off Facebook for a while --

pay for dentures; make folks smile.

In the White House you can't git

if the humble you have quit.

**********************************

@gettinviggy

"We are not amused" she said

"that another fox is dead."

So the Queen by royal command

fur upon her person banned.

Now she dons long underwear

before she goes to take the air.

Crazy Henry and the Snow Boat.

"The Snow Boat's in town!" yelled Crazy Henry at me when I answered my door. He waltzed in and seemed to sizzle with childish delight as he bounced from the couch to the recliner to the coffee table and finally back to the couch. He shivered with glee.
"Cappy Rime just brought her in -- she's at the Saint Paul docks right now, taking on cargo and passengers!" 

"What, that old broken down paddle wheeler the city was gonna let the Fire Department burn for practice?" I replied sharply. I had been busy counting crab apples, and now I'd forgotten where I left off. "Your bread dough ain't got any yeast in it. Probably a nervous break up, that's what it is. Here, lay down and I'll bring you some crab apple tea . . ."

But Crazy Henry leaped from the couch to wave a newspaper in front of my face. It was the Minnehaha Nickel Shopper -- a very reliable rag.

"Here! Right here! Lookit!" he said urgently. And by golly, there it was -- an announcement that Captain Rime would sail with the Mississippi tide late that day for snowy parts unknown. Tickets were still available.

"Wow!" I couldn't help exclaiming. I didn't want to believe it was true, because everybody knew Cappy Rime and the whole Snow Boat thing were just a pleasant wintertime idyll told to kids by a warm fire while they sipped hot chocolate. But if it was in the Nickel Shopper it had to be true.

And suddenly the old snow lust was upon me. As a son of the Upper Midwest I needed to hear the hiss of snowflakes rubbing together in companionable riot as they fell across the tired brittle autumned-out land. That first heavy snowfall always felt like baptism into a crisp new cult promising endless possibilities.

"Okay" I said, throwing all the crab apples into the trash. "Let's go!" 

Cappy Rime welcomed Crazy Henry and me on board personally. He was tall and thin, with a short white beard and kinky white hair. His dark blue officer's blazer was spotless and fit him snug and trim. On his shoulder sat a snowy egret. 

"Where to first, Cappy?" I asked him. He seemed to encourage familiarity.

"Frostbite Falls, matey" he replied. 

We left the dock, churning up the water, flinging carp and bullheads from the paddle wheels onto both shores with a merry plop. And out of the double smokestacks came a pure white mist that spread all around the sky. Soon it was snowing thick and fast.

"I'm glad you talked me into this" I told Crazy Henry, who was trying to catch snowflakes on his elbow. 

Have you ever noticed how everything looks better through a curtain of chastely falling snow? The grubby shoreline, made up of hopeless derelict barges and crumbling warehouses, suddenly took on the appearance of  hopeful derelict barges and crumbling warehouses with redemption at hand.

But I noticed Crazy Henry had that dreamy look on his face -- he was presently going to be up to something amazing and ticklish. I can read him like a Kindle. 

And so it came to pass while I was enjoying the slow easy glide of the winter river, Crazy Henry went to ask Cappy Rime if he could steer the Snow Boat for a while. And Cappy, the genial old fool, told him yes. 

That's why Crazy Henry and I were holding onto a single cork life preserver in the middle of the chill Mississippi, while the old Snow Boat sank quietly with all hands. Crazy Henry had steered the paddle wheeler right over a drifting creosote telephone pole and ripped a hole in the hull big enough to drive a Humvee through. 

I could think of no comment deep or stinging enough to throw at him, as the river current carried us silently down to Iowa. We eventually made it to shore and were taken in by a family of kindly corn chandlers. 

Winter never came to Iowa that year, and all the Turkey Red wheat rotted in the ground. When April rolled around Crazy Henry showed me an ad in the Keokuk Nickel Shopper about an ethnic banana pudding bake off to celebrate the birth of Hanuman. Then he asked me if I wanted to go. For reply, I chased him into the sunset with a pea flail. 

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- This tiny rural town just repealed its dry laws — 86 years after Prohibition ended -- Alabama warns against ‘disruptive behavior’ during Trump visit to LSU game -- An elderly man in Hawaii died after falling into a lava tube hidden in his backyard.

@thedeannapaul

If a village does not choose

to allow the sale of booze

who are we to scoff and sneer

that they never drink a beer?

What's the point now, after all,

to our love of alcohol?

Headaches and a breath so sour

you gotta give your throat a shower.

Though demon rum is here to stay,

I hope for sober joy some day . . . 

****************************

@jacobbogage

It is now a trend, I fear,

to give the Prez a big Bronx cheer

when he goes to football game --

now isn't that a dirty shame?

We ought to reverence his worth,

and not give in to boorish mirth.

What would Putin do if he

were put to such hilarity?

(Siberia would see a spike

in those dumped off to take a hike.)

I hoping that it's still way too soon

for students here to shoot the moon!

*************************

@Meagan_Flynn

Life some cherries in a bowl?

Not above a lava hole!

Keeping Death at bay and foiled,

only to be quick parboiled?

Such injustice I decry!

(And I hope I never fry.)

If my backyard isn't safe,

then God is dead and I'm a waif.