Okor's Slabs and Bags

On the occasion of fixing the young woman’s lawnmower, I’d composed a poem for the event. Sadly, since the event was never held, the poem is now relegated to these obscure pages. We would sit, eating her offering of sandwiches, and I would sit erectly, in my tight and high-waisted matador pants with a silk sash around the middle. Atop my head would be an enormous pink sombrero similar to the one in front of Sancho’s Vision Tarp. I’ve taken a liking to it. Clicking on the modern vinyl floor would be boots made of the finest Spanish leather that I’d just bought for the occasion. I would ask if she had a Sprite in the fridge. With ice, please. Then, laying a scarlet kerchief on the table in front of me, I would pose the bit of verse on it, framed in the bright color of the fabric. In total, it comprises about twenty-five pages. Most of it we can do without. Here is some:
…
Off again
I’d take my leave
And quit
The Milky Way

Through emptiness
Of deep, deep space
I’d stop
The mower blades

But up ahead
I see the lights
I’m homesick
For my ma

No turning back
I’m too far now
I’ve hit
Andromeda

Touchdown on
A planet
With ravines
And rocky crags

Also a large
Shopping mall
Called
Okor’s Slabs and Bags

Okor stands
Ten stories tall
In each hand
Is a sack

This shopping mall’s
One thousand miles
Measured
Front to back

He laughs and rattles
The huge sacks
His feet
In giant socks

“Come to Okor’s!”
He commands
“We’re more than
Slabs and rocks!”

Now me he spies
On my machine
Next to
A stack of bags

“YOU THERE!”
Now Okor is mad
“You best be
On your way!”

“But still you sit
On that machine
Oh, well--
There is a bench.”

“Sit down yonder
Mower man
I never liked
The French!”

“Their bread is hard
Their wine is purple
The streets smell
Like wild hogs

“Try to take three
Steps,” he said
“And—oh my god:
THE DOGS!”

Don’t even try
To roll your “arrs”
“cause if you
Get it wrong

It’s like a crime
Against mankind
They’ll drop you
Like a bomb!”

“One other thing…”
Big Okor said,
I got up from
My bench

I agree,
Huge Mall-bag Man
But
I’m not even French!

No sooner had
I said the words
He grabbed
A slab of rock

“These are on sale,
You tiny thing:
Buy two,
The third’s half-off!”

Just barely missed
A crushing step
From Okor’s
Clumsy gait

I drove my mower
Through the rocks
And out
The exit gate

A three-eyed thing
A sentinel
With hands like
Speckled hens

“Thanks for shopping
Okor’s!
Be sure to tell
Your friends!”

And the young woman, who’d listened politely, her hands folded in her lap, wanting more than anything for this situation to end, would throw out these words:
“Oh, that was interesting; mowing the universe: I’d never have thought of that.”
And I would finish my sandwich, with the not-very-good cheese, because it’s the low-fat kind that people eat these days, and besides isn’t even real cheese. I’d look at the day outside—the kids on bikes quietly enjoying the overwhelming beauty of a late-spring sky ushering in the softest of breezes, so that pedaling isn’t too difficult at all, and the flowers in the newly-planted beds tilting just slightly with the caressing air-currents. Even the cars would seem to have stopped in their endless careening about; silence accompanied by the calling of birds would reign. White, frilly curtains would flutter with the day’s promises. And with every minute passing, my presence becoming more of an encumbrance, would offer this:
“I guess I should go. Good luck with the mower.”