Mr. Geronimo gazed at his prize tomatoes.
“Like Little Plums your red skin chums.” he mused.
Confused? Read on. His squaw, Jemima Potplantane,
known in her office as “Potty”, stirred pemmican beans
while reading “Prairie news” perched on a chair
searching the crossword for clues. 3 down “Sitting bull’s horse,
rhymes with pony (6 letter) but not Balony or An-tony.”
She then ran a plastic comb through roots of the hair
attached to a scalp plucked from the many that adorned the
the kitchen wall. She wondered when the war was all over
if they could ever get back to normal, just sat with the cat on a mat
beneath a taffeta moon, breathing lilac scented suburban air
while a Formby 78 hissed and the Philips dog spun round and round.
How her dad had loved the sound of the old ukulele,
listening late in the evening. Plunk plunka plunk Plunka plunk plunka plunk.
She gazed out of the window. “Must clean them.”
she mused, dunking bread in the beans. Down the Avenue
Mr Monks, leaned on an ornamental lampost,
the centre piece of his front garden,
drawing deep on a ciggy as twilight turned into night.
He ran his fingers through his lusterous wig for the final time.
He sighed."The sacrifices i make just to keep the neighbours onside"