Friday, January 14, 2011
The Ballad of Jennifer Rollins
This one’s old. It dribbles its Cornflakes.
It mixes up slippers and buys lottery tickets.
But the story’s new. And it starts at the gate
in front of the house of Jennifer Rollins.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
Saturday morning, and the breakfast plates
on the table lie wabi sabi .
A cell phone plays “My Favorite Things”
in the pocket of the jacket of Jennifer Rollins.
Where is that Rollins, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come toilets and paper! Come blue orange bobbins!
The cell phone sings, and buzzes and jumps.
It flashes and winks in Jennifer’s pocket.
The cell phone hides, and peeks, and rings.
Calling “Come on, Jen!” out of the denim jacket.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
The cell phone pauses, then starts again.
But Jennifer’s not wearing her denim jacket.
It’s Spring again. It’s the first warm day.
The jacket is hanging in Jennifer’s closet.
Where is that Rollins, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come toilets and paper! Come blue orange bobbins!
The day’s got dogs, a sun and cars.
It’s dried out the lawns by eight o’clock.
It’s emptied the bars down by the docks.
Jennifer won’t need any denim jacket.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
The sea’s gone hazy. The garbage stinks.
The ice-cream vendor’s made love to his wife.
The body of evidence is overwhelming:
Jennifer won’t need any jacket today.
Where is that Rollins, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come toilets and paper! Come blue orange bobbins!
In front of the house, down by the gate,
under the trees, next to her bike,
Jenny is quiet, and cool in the shade.
She cannot hear her cell phone playing.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
Jennifer’s smiling, she’s looking up,
She really can’t smell the rotting garbage.
A breeze whistles through her small pink ears.
The grass stains her shirt, and she’s blocking the passage.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come blue orange bobbins!
This one’s old. It dribbles its Cornflakes.
It mixes up slippers and buys lottery tickets.
But the story’s new. And it starts at the gate
in front of the house of Jennifer Rollins.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
Saturday morning, and the breakfast plates
on the table lie wabi sabi .
A cell phone plays “My Favorite Things”
in the pocket of the jacket of Jennifer Rollins.
Where is that Rollins, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come toilets and paper! Come blue orange bobbins!
The cell phone sings, and buzzes and jumps.
It flashes and winks in Jennifer’s pocket.
The cell phone hides, and peeks, and rings.
Calling “Come on, Jen!” out of the denim jacket.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
The cell phone pauses, then starts again.
But Jennifer’s not wearing her denim jacket.
It’s Spring again. It’s the first warm day.
The jacket is hanging in Jennifer’s closet.
Where is that Rollins, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come toilets and paper! Come blue orange bobbins!
The day’s got dogs, a sun and cars.
It’s dried out the lawns by eight o’clock.
It’s emptied the bars down by the docks.
Jennifer won’t need any denim jacket.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
The sea’s gone hazy. The garbage stinks.
The ice-cream vendor’s made love to his wife.
The body of evidence is overwhelming:
Jennifer won’t need any jacket today.
Where is that Rollins, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come toilets and paper! Come blue orange bobbins!
In front of the house, down by the gate,
under the trees, next to her bike,
Jenny is quiet, and cool in the shade.
She cannot hear her cell phone playing.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is my Jenny?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come ads on the telly!
Jennifer’s smiling, she’s looking up,
She really can’t smell the rotting garbage.
A breeze whistles through her small pink ears.
The grass stains her shirt, and she’s blocking the passage.
Where is my Jenny, boys? Where is that Rollins?
Come pickles and ice-cream! Come blue orange bobbins!
// posted by George Manka @ 1:30 PM 
