My mortal enemy ZeusII laughed and told me his secret
in the form of a two page soliloquy vacuum sealed
and double stapled to my lapel...
he had slipped me a mickey; that's old hat
then set me off in a blink to the moon
that old gray dust bowl round and bright as any nightlight
and that's all she wrote
it's a fact, she did, and here is what she said:
Mortimer had the idea as a wee lad
sitting inside the hollow of his father's garden
beneath the arcing limbs of the big weeping mulberry
where he mumbled scattered oaths and wiped his frantic nose
what would happen if he stifled a sneeze:
would I explode or implode or maybe noisily fart
and would the neighbors hear and laugh and point in the market?
He always kept a hankie sometimes more
and adored carrots and rhubarb from the market
so nay he wouldn't chance it, the sneezes were his trademark anyway
like a cowbell on a heifer or the tinkle of a cat's adorned collar
the warning of the big black feline that inched below the leafy cascades.
Then as it happens Mortimer grew and grew some more
until that day he was a grown man, though young, and heedless
of the words spread about in the market.
Bless you, young Mortimer, they intoned at his sneezes
often, and he still kept a hankie about
one for himself and one for just in case
in the event a lady was about needful of a hankie for reasons undisclosed.
Finally Mortimer older and larger
came to his father's house to settle the estate
and he came upon the garden and the unkempt mulberry
grown older and larger as well.
He was dusty and his thick hair trailed broken cobwebs
gathered in the attics and the sheds and the closets
so crawling into the sparse mulch under the tree
was no daunting occupation
and he did so willingly, feeling the urge to capture an old thought
one that nestled in a wrinkle of his amygdala:
Will I explode, will I implode or heaven forbid
will I emit a fart so noxious and loud
so mortally shameful that it will reach the ears of the auditors
and the neighbors and even as it takes to the wind
distributing itself in all its mitigated glory to the peaks of Everest?
At that the middle aged Mortimer felt a familiar tickle in his nose
reached for a hanky but left it and when the sneeze worked its way to the surface
he reigned it in while scrunching up his face and pursing his lips
bringing to his mind the awful grimace of a llama high in the Andes
and the sneeze backed up and sent him to where he as he stifled it thunk it.
Mortimer found himself wiping a finger under his nose, dust and cobwebs intact
on a Peruvian hillside knackered from the ass kicking a stifled sneeze
that sends you halfway across the world will give you
and wondered if he had indeed imploded
as this result seemed unconventional for a fart. A llama snorted.
He thought of home, and when he stifled the impending sneeze he was there.
Many years have passed since then, and Mortimer is known to us all.
He has used his allergic powers for good, never evil
even thwarting his nemesis ZeusII now and again
giving service to his country and earning the gratitude of millions.
He is Mortimer but seldom wears a cape, preferring tweed
or llama wool.
On the day of his retirement he finally sat down with his old friend, ZeusII
drinking tea, and reminiscing; I was there, taking notes
ZeusII was debonair, ingratiating; easy in his defeat.
He said: It is what it is. To my ear he meant it.
Where Mortimer was genuine and uncombed, ZeusII was ever slick
and never off his game.
It was late, the moon was full, and Mortimer was quiet
even his nose was calm and his sneezes infrequent.
I remember it exactly, ZeusII pondered the moon, and wondered why Mortimer had never visited.
Well, he'd never thought of it; and the villain tossed pepper into the hero's face
who sneezed and in his panic unconsciously stifled it
the shining face of the moon still upon his eye
then ZeusII quickly upped and was away, his enemy en route to the colorless orb.
Mortimer never recovered from his final stifled sneeze
traces of an antihistamine were found in his teacup
masterfully placed by foe ZeusII who even now studies the art of the stifled sneeze
of woe are we should he succeed, though none have, we wouldn't put it past him...
Breathless Mortimer lays surrounded by dust never to feel that old familiar twitch again.
punch the glass ended clock to catch the 9:00 train whistle and set your head on right
flipping out, twisting a handle grip and tying on the lead wire
thread the screw, tidy the flange, polish the morphing widget
