We Are Still Married

by Garrison Keillor

  of tea can fill completely up

  for folks in urinalysis

  for Viennese and Greek and Swiss

  for little kids just learning this

  for everyone it’s pretty great

  to urinate

  of course for men it’s much more grand

  women sit or squat

  we stand

  and hold the fellow in our hand

  and proudly watch the mighty arc

  adjust the range and make our mark

  on stones or posts for rival men

  to smell and not come back again

  women are so circumspect

  but men can piss to great effect

  with terrible hydraulic force

  can make a stream or change its course

  can put out fires or cigarettes

  and sometimes

  laying down our bets

  late at night outside the

  bars

  we like to aim up at the stars.

  Lamour

  When I was seventeen I fell in love with Barbara Ann.

  We sat together in the lunchroom. I held her hand.

  Once I kissed her and she said, “That wasn’t bad.”

  Ours was not a great romance but it was all I had.

  I was lonely. I was the weirdest kid in town,

  Six foot three, a crewcut, a hundred and three pounds,

  High-water pants and a goofy face—if only she could see

  That down inside this cartoon boy was someone lovely: me.

  One night I was standing by the candy store when she drove by

  In a pink Cadillac with this rich handsome guy

  On their way to the Prom—I couldn’t bear to live!

  How could she be so cruel to one so sensitive?

  That night I made a vow that someday I’d become

  Rich and handsome, too, like him (the lousy bum!),

  Well educated, suave of speech, a guy of style and grace,

  And come straight back to Hoopersville and laugh right in her face.

  And so I became and now I am and so the other day

  I flew down in my Lear jet to visit Barbara A.

  Got her address from her mom and drove out in my Porsche

  And found her at her mobile home, hanging out her worsche.

  She turned and saw me and she almost dropped her drawers—

  “Is that really you, then! And is that sportscar yours?”

  “It sure is!” I said and looked in those clear blue eyes

  And suddenly I loved her more than I had realized.

  “I love you,” I said. “Come, live with me. Marry me, my dear. ”

  She turned and yelled, “Hey kids, wash up! let’s go! your stepdad’s here!”

  There were seven filthy children with grimy feet and hands,

  And crusts of dirt around their mouths and big loads in their pants,

  Slimy lips and greasy hair and clothes of such bad taste,

  I put my arms around them all and cried, “The Lord be praste!”

  We hauled them to the laundromat and got them washed and shined

  And were married the next morning, so I guess that love is blind.

  I think we’re pretty happy, and one thing I know for sure

  Is that we love each other, O viva sweet lamour.

  Lamour, lamour.

  Oh yes we love each other and viva sweet lamour.

  In Memory of Our Cat, Ralph

  When we got home, it was almost dark.

  Our neighbor waited on the walk.

  “I’m sorry, I have bad news,” he said.

  “Your cat, the gray-black one, is dead.

  I found him by the garage an hour ago.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “for letting us know.”

  We dug a hole in the flower bed,

  The lilac bushes overhead,

  Where this cat loved to lie in spring

  And roll in the dirt and eat the green

  Delicious first spring buds,

  And laid him down and covered him up,

  Wrapped in a piece of tablecloth,

  Our good old cat laid in the earth.

  We quickly turned and went inside

  The empty house and sat and cried

  Softly in the dark some tears

  For that familiar voice, that fur,

  That soft weight missing from our laps,

  That we had loved too well perhaps

  And mourned from weakness of the heart:

  A childish weakness, to regard

  An animal whose life is brief

  With such affection and such grief.

  If this is foolish, so it be.

  He was good company,

  And we miss his gift

  Of cat affection while he lived,

  The sweet shy nature

  Of that graceful creature

  Who gave the pleasure of himself:

  The memory of our cat, Ralph.

  The Solo Sock

  Of life’s many troubles, I’ve known quite a few:

  Bad plumbing and earaches and troubles with you,

  But the saddest of all, when it’s all said and done,

  Is to look for your socks and find only one.

  Here’s a series of single socks stacked in a row.

  Where in the world did their fellow socks go?

  About missing socks, we have very few facts.

  Some say cats steal them to use for backpacks,

  Or desperate Norwegians willing to risk

  Prison to steal socks to make lutefisk.

  But the robbery theories just don’t hold water:

  Why would they take one and not take the odder?

  Now, some people lose socks, and though you may scoff,

  Some go to shows and have their socks knocked off.

  Some use a sock to mop up spilled gin with

  And some people had just one sock to begin with.

  But for most missing socks, or sock migration,

  Sockologists have no quick explanation.

  Socks are independent, studies have shown,

  And most feel a need for some time alone.

  Some socks are bitter from contact with feet;

  Some, seeking holiness, go on retreat;

  Some need adventure and cannot stay put;

  Some socks feel useless and just underfoot.

  But whatever the reason these socks lose control,

  Each sock has feelings down deep in its sole.

  If you wake in the night and hear creaking and scraping,

  It’s the sound of a sock, bent on escaping.

  The socks on the floor that you think the kids dropped?

  They’re socks that went halfway, got tired, and stopped.

  It might help if, every day,

  As you don your socks, you take time to say:

  “Thank you, dear socks, for a job that is thankless.

  You comfort my feet from tiptoes to ankless,

  Working in concert, a cotton duet,

  Keeping them snug and absorbing the sweat,

  And yet you smell springlike, a regular balm,

  As in Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps,

  And so I bless you with all of my heart

  And pray that the two of you never shall part.

  I love you, dear socks, you are socko to me,

  The most perfect pair that I ever did see.

  I thank you and bless you now. Vobiscum Pax.”

  Then you bend down and put on your socks.

  This may help, but you must accept

  That half of all socks are too proud to be kept,

  And, as with children, their leaving is ritual.

  Half of all socks need to be individual.

  Mrs. Sullivan

  “Function follows form,”

  Said Louis Sullivan one warm

  Evening in Chicago drinking beer.

  His wife said, “Dear,

  I’m sure tha
t what you meant

  Is that form should represent

  Function. So it’s function that should be followed.”

  Sullivan swallowed

  And looked dimly far away

  And said, “Okay,

  Form follows function, then.”

  He said it again,

  A three-word spark

  Of modern arch-

  Itectural brilliance

  That would dazzle millions.

  “Think I should write it down?”

  He asked with a frown.

  “Oh yes,” she said, “and here’s a pencil.”

  He did and soon was influential.

  Guilt & Shame

  A gentleman of means stood in

  The exclusive Club de Joie,

  Enjoying a tall glass of gin,

  When suddenly he saw

  A beggar lying at the door,

  His face so pale and sad—

  He thought he’d seen that man before.

  He said, “Excuse me. Dad?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” his father said.

  “I’m only in your way.

  I’m weak and sick, I’ll soon be dead,

  Perhaps later today.

  I only came because I thought

  That maybe you could find

  A—no, I’m sorry, I forgot

  You’ve so much on your mind.

  Ah! My heart! The light grows dim!

  I’ll leave you now. Goodbye!”

  The fine young man looked down at him

  And this was his reply.

  No, I won’t feel guilty, Dad,

  For I am not to blame,

  And I won’t let you put on me

  A load of grief and shame.

  Life is full of sunshine,

  Love is a clear blue sky,

  Tomorrow is a brand-new day,

  God bless you and goodbye.

  That evening he was standing

  Underneath a bright marquee,

  There to attend the gala ball

  Dressed so handsomely,

  Chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Saks

  At the discotheque,

  When suddenly a pile of rags

  Reached out and touched his leg.

  “Hello,” she said. “It’s me. Your mom.

  Sorry to get in your way.

  I guess you had forgotten me

  And Dad, but that’s okay.

  I’m only your poor old relative,

  There’s no reason you should care,

  But do you think that you might have

  A couple bucks to spare?

  I nursed you as a loving mother

  And held you on my knee,

  And now you’ve thrown us in the gutter,

  Your poor old dad and me.

  I am your flesh, I gave birth

  To you—oh, the pain that night!

  And now you’re treating me like dirt,

  Your mom. But that’s all right.

  I forgive. I understand.

  You enjoy yourself, my child.”

  He took her gently by the hand

  And spoke to her and smiled.

  No, I refuse to feel guilty

  For I am not to blame

  And I won’t let you put on me

  A load of grief and shame.

  For life is full of sunshine

  And love is a clear blue sky,

  Tomorrow is a brand-new day,

  God bless you and goodbye.

  He arrived at quarter to three

  At his mansion on the hill

  And sat in his library

  And sipped his port, until

  He heard, upstairs, a child cough

  And cry: Dad, I want you.

  He found her with her blanket off,

  So feverish from the flu,

  Tears streaming down the angel face.

  He tried to comfort her.

  She cried, “I was looking everyplace.

  I didn’t know where you were.

  I heard some voices, I was scared,

  It was too dark to see.

  I thought that you had disappeared

  ’Cause you were mad at me.

  Whydja go, Dad? Tell me. Huh?

  Tell me what I did.

  Left alone without no one,

  Lying sick in bed.

  All alone with no one here

  But my old cat. And Mom.”

  The father brushed away a tear,

  He trembled but was calm.

  No, I won’t feel guilty, child,

  For I am not to blame

  And I won’t let you put on me

  A load of grief and shame.

  Life is full of sunshine,

  Love is full of light,

  Tomorrow is a brand-new day,

  God bless you and good night.

  He sat downstairs a little while

  And thought about his kin:

  His dad, his mother, and his child.

  Just then the cat walked in.

  She sat and stared into his face

  With cool relentless eyes;

  He felt the judgment in her gaze

  So righteous and so wise.

  She looked at him till he fell down

  In anguish at her feet

  And wept and threw his arms around

  That cat, his shame complete.

  I am guilty and ashamed

  For everything I’ve done!

  Sins that I’ve forgotten, now

  I feel them, every one.

  Life is full of sorrow,

  Love is all in vain,

  Tomorrow and tomorrow

  Only bring us grief and pain.

  He did not see the cat’s expression.

  She smiled to hear his sad confession.

  She knew that, using this technique,

  She would get tuna all next week.

  Obedience

  There was a boy whose name was Jim

  And although life was good to him

  And gave him home and food and love,

  He thought that it was not enough,

  That it was time for him to do

  Those things that he’d been told not to.

  “I am ten and must be free

  To enjoy what’s been denied to me,

  And I shall do it all,” he said.

  “I’ll spread some black dirt on my bread,

  And spill food on my Sunday clothes

  And I shall put beans up my nose.”

  Everything that to this kid

  His mom said, “Don’t,” he went and did.

  He gulped his sandwich, and dragged his feet,

  Threw bags of garbage in the street,

  Leaned out windows, ran down halls,

  And wrote exciting words on walls.

  Until at last, at half past two,

  He could not think of more to do.

  Anger, gluttony, and pride—

  He’d drunk and smoked and cursed and lied,

  Stuck out his tongue, dropped his britches,

  And shoved old ladies into ditches

  And other things good folk condemn—

  He’d done it all by 3:00 P.M.,

  And satisfied his appetite:

  Now what was left to do that night?

  From this, dear children, you should sense

  The value of obedience.

  When I say, “Don’t,” I mean, “Postpone

  Some wickedness for when you’re grown,

  For naughty flings and wild rampages

  Are much more fun at later ages.”

  Now brush your teeth and go to bed.

  And after all your prayers are said,

  Lie in the dark as quiet as mice

  And whisper one word that isn’t nice.

  Don’t say ten, a whole big group,

  Just say one, like “panda poop.”

  Oh, what a thrill from one bad word!

  Say it a second time and third.

 
“Poop” is a vulgar word, and vicious.

  How bad of you! And how delicious!

  One is enough. The rest will keep.

  Now shut your eyes and go to sleep.

  Upon Becoming a Doctor

  Allons! This piece of poetry

  Is written by a Doctor of Lit,

  A degree that my friend Peter Stitt

  Persuaded his college to give to me:

  Gettysburg College in Pa.,

  A Lutheran school in the famous town.

  I drove there for Commencement Day,

  Following the route of Lee

  Seeking the flank of Gen. Meade,

  And parked, and found a room, and peed,

  Donned the honorary gown

  And followed the professors down

  Through the deep perspiring crowd

  Who peered at me with faces bowed,

  Wondering how long I’d gas,

  And past the graduating class

  Up to the platform where, aloof,

  Imperial beneath a roof,

  Our magnificent parade

  Sat down and surveyed

  The situation:

  Youth in the sun and age in the shade,

  Which has been true since creation.

  Age will rule while youth must seek;

  Youth must listen to age speak;

  And now it was my turn.

  I stood

  And adjusted my doctoral hood,

  Nodded to the classic

  Brow of President Charles Glassick

  And, to the right, the patient rows

  Of academic buffaloes,

  And with a swirl of gown and sleeve

  Advanced dignified

  To the podium to receive

  The crowd’s applause though it had died.

  A long pause for the removal

  From my pocket of my dark dense notes—

  Down front, a storm of clearing throats—

  I glanced to the sky for His approval

  And took a good deep breath, and then,

  Behind me where the degrees were piled,

  Behind our row of distinguished men,

  Came the voice of a little child,

  So shrill and yet so pure: