Popeye’s Lament.



I knew this

Merchant Marine one time,

Retired I suppose

Living down the ‘Y’

Tattoos On his 
Ropy old arms so faded

Could’ve been anything,

An anchor, a hula girl

Maybe someone’s name.


He had an old

Tin coffeepot,

Plug it in a wall;

Used to boil hotdogs in it,

Make Joe in the same damn water

Stir it with a dog

Eat the gray/red meat 
Out of his own fist.

A particular fella.


Says to me 
”Kids today do not 
Know dick.

Ink and metal hanging offa them

Twice as much

As this old Cannibal 
I used to crew with

Outta Zimbabwe,

Name of Brutal Pete.

I saw that bastard

Bite a mans pinky off

As a joke one time.

We all Laughed! Safest thing.

Think one of these 
Decorated Johnny Shitcakes

Got the stones to

Eat a finger?

Used to be you earned 
The pictures and the scars.

Call me Popeye

If you want to

What the hell, everybody else does,

Like I give a shit.”


In my mind 
I shrink him down

And make a dignified home

For him in an

Old “Superfriends” lunch box

I acquired at a yard sale.

Five bucks.

They had no idea.


I nail it to the wall

In my attic, kit it

Out with plastic 
Furniture from

My kid’s dollhouse

And a hammock

Carefully woven

Out of dental floss.


He’ll have to get along

Without the thermos.

They were lined with glass

And fell to ruin easily.

It would have taken up

Too much damn space



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s