In 1965 I introduced John Lennon to this pile of Norwegian wood,
and then he wrote the song.
My sister Sue Ellen
had the largest collection
of bulk vending machine
tchotchke
in the Western Hemisphere.
She kept it in plastic one gallon
ice cream pails in the bedroom
closet we three shared.
Linda, Sue Ellen, and me.
I didn't get my own bedroom
until I was twelve
when Billy finally moved out
to marry his first wife Barbara.
Sue Ellen never let go of anything.
Trinkets. Resentments. Bad habits.
She got her trinkets at the
Red Owl supermarket
in New Brighton
where mom went shopping
every Tuesday.
A nickel in the slot
permitted a clear plastic capsule
to pop out containing
elongated coins
tiny rubber skeletons
that glowed in the dark
plastic charm bracelet figures
cricket pinchers
keychains
little segmented hula girls
miniature plastic three note harmonicas
compasses the size of a penny.
Me, I was strictly a gumball man.
If I couldn't chew it,
I didn't want it.
I threw away Carl Yaztrzemski
and Hank Aaron
baseball cards to chaw
contentedly
on brittle pink strips
of god knows what --
it couldn't have been chicle,
since it shattered like glass.
Ah, if I only had had
the miserly instinct of my
sister --
I would now be rolling in wealth
commanding my chef
to put canned anchovies
on my Totino's frozen pizza.
Drinking Bobby Burns
Black Cherry Soda
until it poured out my ears.
Tossing Sputnik bubblegum balls
and Atomic Fireballs
to the adoring crowds
instead of spending a
miserable old age
mumbling on soda crackers
and Bongard's Processed American cheese
from the CFSP.
Gather ye baubles while
ye may.
When my mother made tuna salad, I went on a hunger strike
that lasted for years.
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