Amy Lemmon (who will be a guest blogger in September) and I have been at work on a series of collaborate poems with two restraints: the stanzas are written in abba rhyme, with a mandatory mention of Abba, the singing group, in each poem. Here’s one for those of you who can’t get out to see Mamma Mia! — Denise Duhamel
CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED?
"I’ve had enough!" he said. "I’m moving out
tonight!" He left the toilet seat up,
the toothpaste uncapped. I logged on to Meetup
dot com to scout for a guy who would scrub tile grout,
take out the recycling, not leave whiskers in the sink.
My first message was from a guy who played the ukulele
inviting me to the Ukulele Cabaret at Jimmy’s. A melee
of goatees, hula skirts, and sweet umbrella drinks
shimmied through my mind. I pressed Delete,
and opened a jar of Skippy, my husband’s toast crumbs evidence
of his abominable manners. Meanwhile, my Prince
of Lysol must have been hiding under a dust sheen
in the parlor of some Victorian house. "I’m yours, m’lady,"
his email began. I went to his website, "Mr. Clean
At Your Service Dot Com." A gilt-framed scene
of a man in a French maid’s outfit, a masquerade he
conjured, accompanied by an MP3 of Duran Duran
singing "Is There Something I should Know?"
Trembling, I clicked "Reply" and typed "Hello,
Ever since opening my first box of Spic and Span,
I’ve found housecleaning incredibly erotic."
My keyboard was sticky from my husband’s
Twix bar fetish. I jumped up to wipe my hands
with Purell and take an antibiotic
before checking my email again. "Methinks I can help–
Have you ever seen a hunk vacuum in only an apron?"
I took a breath. Did I dare become the patron
of a Dirt Devilish escort? When Björn and Agnetha split up, I yelped
that true love was a sham. In those good old Clearasil days,
I rooted for Benny and Anni-Frid, Carly Simon and James Taylor,
Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis, Jr. Now, outside, winter sun shone on a trailer,
my husband loading his lumpy boxes labeled "RAGE" and "MALAISE."
— Denise Duhamel and Amy Lemmon