"A shlemiel falls on his back & breaks his nose."

You left me for a man who does not read books,
who falls into trances, morbid depressions,
instinctive, works with his hands,
your saintly mother loves him.

His religion is a talent for insinuating himself
into the cracks of human weaknesses,
his substitute for friendships,
he demeans the strong sign of Scorpio.

Is Franz Kline expensive wallpaper?
Did Cleopatra really exist?
How much Chopin can one man stand?
Ask him to recite William Blake.
Did Sun Ra die or go home to Saturn?

He will never smile at you
while thinking of Marcel Duchamp.

He follows you  like a beta dog,
hangs his head & hides,
rushes down the steps like a schoolboy
but he is off to see his lawyer
to find how much his divorce will cost.

He has a weak handshake.

The Chinese take-out I grew to hate
is home-cooked love to him, his wife
must be monster ball-crusher Scylla.

You deserve a schlemiel in your bed.
I am glad I will not sleep there anymore.

You used to be a genius.
Somehow you became a piano teacher
wearing a flower print dress.

I hope you gain thirty pounds.


© Bob Rixon
The Balancing Beam