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
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 