Page 16

Up in the Penthouse of the Gods

Ward wallows seventeen minutes
in a gadda da vida
—Das ist mein song, he shouts above the steely twang, it’s
so like Wagner (he pronounces the Teutonic vee)
He swells his chest and swings his arms to gesture
round the penthouse—these windows should be walls!
Why so my dear? says June who’s taken a position
behind the ironing board. She smoothes her apron (zoom
for perfect nails,) Wardie could you
tune the splendour down?
I fear this Iron Butterfly will wake the Beav.
Now enter Wally, who’s been smoking you
know what.
He rubs his neck and says, I sort of like it
Dude, but USA won’t take your heavy metal all the way.
Ward turns his six-pack, back to June,
we’ll renovate, I’ll get more pieces
in this place. My secretary
desk would fit right in
beside that mirror.
He looks at reflection, pats his gut, sucks
in and bends his arm to see
his wrist curl up, a fist, his lower lip
pokes out in pride
—I never felt more Wotan
than I do today, he says. The time for truth and family
reconciliation’s here. I have a little peccadillo
that I must confide.
Meanwhile June has finished pressing out
his 22 inch neck and pays attention
to his chummy god-like voice—as he goes on, her face
turns red, then white, her long hair flies
and Ward is startled by her sudden screech,
—a little ripped and ruptured by
her scratch—take care my love, he says
you’re louder than die Walküre—see there, the Beav
is up and crying from the fright.
So-o-o-o fine, says Wally, now we have communication
with the gods.
The hell we do, cries sobbing Beaver,
Götterdämmerung!