Our Employer And His Sweetheart by David Spicer

We snickered when viewing him: the fat,
blond scarecrow, crucified in a tweed suit,
a version of our employer, dead butterflies
in his mouth, eels and snakes in his pockets.
The six of us abhorred the man we dubbed
Mr. Connoisseur, our master who feigned
love for the suppers we served him, who
wallowed in our misery. Here he glared,
not an effigy, but dead with my dagger
in his mouth, whiskers drenched
with blood and rain. I squeezed his pudgy
hand balled in a fist: bragging he’d hoist
our bodies and we’d swallow pigeons if he
desired, now he’d be what we wanted.
We swigged big jugs of sherry, toasted
his health with laughter, he who thought money
bypassed our desires. We placed a wreath
of orchids on his soon-to-smolder head,
surrounding him, celebrated in his mansion:
after we repaired the hearth, we burned him,
tossed the black corpse inside the basement
tomb. Then we read letters from his sweetheart
Lily, frolicked in the pool until dawn
and relished her arrival, preparing our
birthday surprise for this unsuspecting soul.

David Spicer

Memphian David Spicer has poems in Yellow Mama, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He is the author of one collection of poems and four chapbooks.

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