Where is the fuzzy, mealy-mouthed man
I used to call Papa?
Where did he go?
I last saw him
on top of the Empire State Building,
smoking a corn cob pipe,
saying "What's good enough for Frosty the Snowman
is good enough for me."
He had just eaten a pizza
and was content.
Together we peered
down on the people below,
all looking like ants and shit.
Earlier that day,
I had taken a shower
back at the hotel room,
got dressed,
and was watching the terrible news
on the square tv.
There were wars
and shitty economies,
robberies and murders,
random bodies washing up on specific shores.
Oh, and the weather.
There was always weather out.
Suddenly,
my left armpit began to itch incessantly.
It was an angry and aggressive itch,
reminiscent of poison ivy.
I began scratching it
and noticed that it was
all gooey up in there.
I had never experienced
a gooey, itchy armpit before,
but, hey,
this was New York City.
Anything could happen.
My fingers were now gooey as well
and I sniffed them,
curious.
Soap.
It was soap.
I had forgotten to rinse out my left armpit
when I was in the shower.
The fuck?
But, yeah,
I lost the fuzzy, mealy-mouthed man
I used to call Papa.
I wonder
where did he go?
Published on November 17, 2011 23:50