“Is it the music of my breathing
As I sleep that you adore?”
“Abhor, Dear. Not adore, Dear.
Let’s be frank. YOU SNORE.”
Yes, Wifey’s night adventures
Are a symphony of sound
Ranging from a bag of
Baby kittens being drowned
To a trombone solo or a bagpipe-
Or a float of Gay-Pride screamers
On St Patrick’s Day parade.
Such clicks and snorts and snorkles
Such zips and tweets and bumps
Hoots and toots and chortles,
Whistles, chirps and thumps,
You’d think the Hallelujah Chorus
And eleven lords-a-leaping
Were dancing on her pillow.
And you needn’t plan on sleeping.
For years I listened to it.
It seemed a language all its own.
Then one night I said, “Just talk to it,”
And threw the dog a bone.
“What’s for dinner, Dear?” I said.
She snorked, “Opity pan-mandy-tam.”
Did you hear it? I did!
Baked pork chops and candied yam...
A meal I’d often fixed for us
And though she spoke in tongues,
I began to think I understood
This language of the lungs.
So I starting asking questions
When the symphonies got good
To see if she was prescient
Or just snoring... if I could.
“The Red Sox play the Yankees, Dear.
Can you predict the score?”
“Oxen forky-pooh,” she squeaked,
And nailed it: Sox by four!
“Where shall we vacation, Dear?” I asked.
So we went there and had a wonderful time
In Boca Raton By the Sea.
As I learned to interpret her chirping,
The language came perfectly clear.
If she chortled, “Lager-bahger-bo-broosky,”
I’d buy a case of my favorite beer.
“If I bought a lottery ticket,” I asked,
“What are my chances to win it?”
“Your chance if you buy a ticket,” she snorked.
“Is the same as if you didn’t.”
My amazement at her wisdom
Soared upward by the hour.
It was clear that while she chirped away,
She was tapping some mystical power.
As rumors of her clairvoyance spread,
Town folk lined up to be near her,
To learn their fortunes, futures, and fate
From their precious community seer.
“What shall we name our baby boy?”
Pled a mom with a child one day old.
“Midas,” we told her, “and when he is older,
He’ll turn all his toys to gold.
“More gold than you ever could dream of!
And you won’t even have to declare it.”
But they named the rascal Quentin instead,
And Quentin produced not a karat...
Which I tell as a simple warning to all,
Never question or quibble
When you’re lucky enough to get answers
From your fabulous, neighborhood sibyl.
And as only I could interpret her words...
So mythic, profound, and historical...
I had to fashion myself as the priest
Of Minnesota’s phenomenal oracle.
She sang most ecstatically just before dawn,
And, of course, I let nobody near,
But recorded her snorts on my iPhone,
To assure her predictions were clear.
Supplicants gave their queries in writing,
On chits I supplied them for free,
But, of course, for the answers I brought them
I charged a small tariff or fee.
“Is my lover true or unfaithful?”
Was asked many times each year.
“She never answers this one,” I’d say,
“But for you she sheds a tear.”
“Is Trump really greedy and venal?” one asked.
“Does he truly love only money?”
“Zit-zit. Whoopie-doopy,” she crooned.
“Does Winnie-the-Pooh love honey?”
“How am I doing as priest?” I asked,
As we lay there together in bed.
“Double the fees,” she said.
So I did, and we made a good living...
For a time, but as you may guess,
Whom the jealous gods would destroy,
They first delude with success.
So one night I brought her a question
About what investment to make.
Should he buy GE or IBM
Wondered a neighbor named Jake.
“Urpity-burpity Gargledy-pop,” she sang.
“When the working day is through,
Oh, girls just wanna have fun.”?
“That can’t be right,” I said to myself
And gave her a shot with my knee.
“It’s an investment question, Dear!
C’mon! IBM or GE?!”
“Daddy Dear. Oh, daddy Dear,
Girls just wanna have fun.”
And so it went from that day on,
And I ask, “What good is an augur...
To a world hungry for answers...
Who can only predict Cyndi Lauper?!”
We were toast! Kaput! Finito!
But we had a sizable stash,
For I hadn’t declared a penny
And only took payments in cash.
In retirement, we live now in Boca
In a modest home by the sea,
Where every dawn we waken to song,
Cyndi Lauper, Wifey, and me.