Melvin’s Hell

After having my pancreas removed by blessed hands
and no incision
I quit smoking
and moved in with Melvin
a duck-billed platypus and eager playwright
who wielded abrasive eyebrows
and an extensive knowledge of reflexology.

Between three jobs
I stole from the rich
to pay the poor tax.
Melvin was always playing this
ridiculous puzzle game on the internet.

My only escape was
driving old Highway 61
listening to folk-grass
while clouds tossed rain on me.

“Better days are coming,” Melvin said.

His voice alone helped me understand
why women love older men.

Melvin was forty-three and fair looking
but had trouble finding dates
or even scoring phone numbers.
I’ve dated the best women in the world
and found ways to make them leave me within six months.

Naturally, everyone thought we were gay.