Jake, old friend, relic of a rake,
dropped in and occupied our couch
to catch off-Broadway plays
during our Manhattan days.
Friend of my folks, fan of my mom’s music,
I inherited him along with
scrapbooks my sisters didn’t want
and the extra odd silver that didn’t match.
Always fun visits at first, but then
there was the eventual price we’d pay
for his monthly long-weekend stay.
Did I mention his death-rattle breath?
He never picked up the tab, even for coffee.
His girth shattered a rung on my prized
rocking chair inherited from Jeffery and
seriously challenged the shocks on my Fiat.
Boy, oy, ready the clothespins for the kicker:
He never got over living in postwar Germany.
Or maybe he was simply too damned cheap
to buy soap and shampoo. Eeeeeeew.
My olfactory senses may never recover
from Eau du Jake, the scent that made
neighbors complain. If he’d actually smelled
like fish, it might have been an improvement.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, which asked us to recount our personal Monty Wooleys – guests who overstay their welcome and begin to “smell like fish,” literally or figuratively!