Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 04/17/23

PERCY’S POSTLUDE

Percy went out on Saturday night.
He dropped by his favorite pub.
There, he enjoyed a shot or two.
Then, he enjoyed a shot or two more.
He capped the visit with a shot or two.
And a few beers.

Percy repaired to a nearby hotel.
In a certain room, he paid a call
to Vera, his sweetheart—
the one his wife didn’t know about.
Percy fondled Vera’s breasts.
Vera slapped him. He pinched her ass.
Vera giggled and ran into the hall.
Percy eagerly followed her.

Still giggling, Vera climbed the stairs.
Again, Percy eagerly followed her.
He stumbled three steps from the top
and fell, hard, down the staircase.
Vera found Percy sprawled at the bottom,
with a smile on his face
and a bulge in his pants.

Percy wore those to his funeral.

YAY, GOD!

Father Michael Perez was full of fire.
Each weekend, he would shame parishioners
with long homilies on Original Sin.
Then, he’d send the collection plates
around a second time, to make them pay for
what he claimed was their innate depravity.
Father Perez said this was “God’s will.”

On Saturday mornings, Father Perez visited
each and every one of the catechism classes.
He would walk sternly up and down
the rows of desks, pausing to slap any kid
who dared to whisper, giggle or fidget.
Perez accused them of “disrespecting Jesus.”

Every week, Monday through Sunday,
Father Perez made the nuns get up
at 4AM to scrub the church’s windows
with vinegar and polish its pews with oil soap.
“A dirty chapel,” Perez declared,
“delights the Devil and disgraces the Lord.”
Then, he’d go back to bed and sleep until 8AM.

On a clear and sunny Sunday in July,
Father Perez celebrated Mass outdoors.
In the midst of another brimstony sermon,
a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky.
It struck Perez in the chest, killing him instantly.
The crowd was stunned. Nobody moved or spoke.
After several long seconds, the silence was broken
by a young boy who was sitting in the first row.
“Yay, God!” he cheered.

AN ANSWER

The doorbell rang. Rosanna answered it.
At the door was her brother, Aldo.
She and Aldo had argued furiously,
over the family business, ten years ago.
They hadn’t spoken since.
Rosanna recalled the last words
she had said to Aldo:
“You dickless, spineless chooch!
Deny it? You can’t even do that!
You’d need years to think of an answer!”
Then, she threw Aldo out.

Aldo stood there, carefully balancing
a ricotta pie on his fingertips.
Smiling, he smashed the pie in Rosanna’s face.
Without a word, Aldo turned,
walked back to his car, climbed in
and drove away.

Jack Phillips Lowe is a resident of the Chicago area. His poems have appeared in Clutch 2023, Beatnik Cowboy and Poetry Super Highway. His most recent book, Flashbulb Danger (Middle Island Press, 2018), is available on Amazon. Lowe is currently working on a new chapbook. The ghost of Carl Sandburg, with whom Lowe communes nightly (after several shots of Bushmill’s), is trying to talk him out of it. Lowe ignores him and keeps drinking. I mean, writing.