Tag Archives: Cape Cod

The Summer Adam Sandler Filmed “That’s My Boy” on Cape Cod

Jim!  Jiiimmm!  Is that Adam Sandlah?

Yes, yelled the bald Eagle Scout,
who in my youth told me once not to lie.

A pugnacious copper-toned Shar-pei pushing a walker
inchwormed as fast as she could to her dock on the bay.

Is that really Adam Sandlah?

Yes, the bronze-beaked Eagle replied
without ruffling a single feather.
Adam, what's wrong with you?
Wave to Mrs. Boucher.
Make an old woman feel special - 
though I questioned who wanted to feel special.

Preening is not a sin on Cape Cod,
not in the summertime, 
so I waved and wondered.

How could anyone believe Adam Sandler would be
on my dad's treacherous Boston Whaler - 
a boat famous for its mysterious brown stains,
mildewed cushions, and inattentive outboard?

Adam . . . Adam . . . Adam,
come over to my house for dinner.
I'll make a brisket.

Being a New Englander himself,
Adam knew how to crack the lobster-shelled heart
of every crab-faced Masshole in each sandbar town.
He tipped 100% for everything.

And Cape Cod rewarded him the only way it knew -
with tilting towers of maple walnut ice cream teetering on tiny cones
and overflowing cardboard cups of tepid chowder infiltrated by 
chunky potatoes and chewy clams.

Osterville's elders, a large, comfortable and opinionated lot,
adored him more than their own sons because they heard he was polite - 
that he loved and respected his mother.

All the sunburnt seniors had stories of how Adam had sought them out;
how he had gone away enlightened and grateful.

Dropping the name of someone you've never met
is a victimless crime on Cape Cod in the summertime -
similar to prominently placing a movie star's name
in the title of your poem in the orphaned
hope that now someone may read it.

By the way, Adam,
the brisket was delicious.
You would have loved it.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Great White Heron in a Floppy Hat

My father, long retired and recently afraid
of becoming irrelevant, has become a pest.

A master gardener, himself, he has volunteered
to teach the Wampanoag children of Cape Cod
how to grow vegetables the way 80 year old white men do -
by stabbing cold metal hand shovels into the sandy soil
and throwing dry seeds in the gaping wounds.

The Wampanoag women of Cape Cod
prefer their traditional methods.
The warm heels of their feet create the needed homes
for the pregnant seeds.

Dad visits their community garden
unannounced, uninvited, and unaware
he may be perceived as a great white heron in a floppy hat
attempting to poach fish from their pond.

The tortured history here would recommend
a gentler approach, but he is forever
surprised by the frosty welcome.
He suspects they want his money more than his help.

His plans for Thanksgiving, my sister and I think,
are bound to make matters worse.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

A Sort of Homecoming

Uncle was bad at everything
Cape Cod cares about.

He excelled in one way only:
he loved my fault-finding aunt without reason.

He was blessed in one way only:
his indulgent family loved him without reason.

Today we buried him next to my waiting aunt
in the only home he has wanted for seven years.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief