The Phyllis

My husband was in the CIA. That’s the kind

of woman I am. Lived all over Asia in suites

decked out for the embassy staff, lounged

around pools with sweet Singapore Slings,

but now that I’m on my own, I can’t stand

to waste a minute, not a breath. You may know

my regular work at Helen’s Mademoiselle

Beauty Nook downtown, but on the side

I help women trim their belly fat. “Lose

weight now, ask me how.” A thin American

girl is a happy one, I always say. Oprah, too,

but the drugs witch doctors sell can kill

brain cells quicker than liquor. And your will,

your liver. Listen, herbs are just what

you need to cut that cellulite. I learned

that in the Orient. I had spare time to spare

and paid attention. Embrace herbs and exercise

daily with a proper purge, just like the monks

of Buddha. Tablets help, and fruit shakes, too,

make you frisky as a prime-time preacher,

but here’s my recent love and pleasure:

invention. True, I mixed a chemical rinse

that made great colors like the ao dais in Saigon,

but some of the girls said it burned. Then

I worked with Gene Graddick on a special

quick perm you can get wet, but he cut out

before we got it perfectly perfected. Beauty,

though, that’s the ticket. I knew that even in Nam,

while Jim-ass was off on his secret missions.

The new machine I’m the mother of will move

senior citizens and the, you know, “crippled”

gals to the swivel chair without a hitch. I saw

too many women, men, and sad children

with stiff legs (or one or none) who couldn’t

move after one government or another

gave invitations to mortar fire or a claymore mine.

With this machine I could prop them straight

and wet-cut any willing guinea pig—pardon

my calling the handicapped that—blow dry

and comb them out with no inconvenience.

My prototype is getting made in a LaGrange

body shop this minute, if Bish is working

late like he promised, and I aim to franchise,

since Jim left me flat busted—well, you can

see that’s a figure of speech—with back bills

piled to the ceiling. The government has laws

that business can’t fairly slight the challenged,

so if I get it right, it’s got to sell. I can’t

tell you how it works, you know. I learned

secrecy from an expert, covert fool. It’s called

“The Phyllis,” after me.

What’s wrong with that?

It’s no brag if you really did it. Hell—excuse

my French—you know Snake Grillis of Snake

and the Grass? He can pick the fiddle better

than any man alive, and says so on stage.

It’s no lie, so let him waller in it, I say. Look,

I’m salt of the earth and have all the right

attitudes and skills, not that selfish royal act

my Jim put on when we went to the market.

He called the people “slants” and laughed

when they didn’t savvy. It’s no wonder

he carried a Colt in his belt; they could tell

how superior he felt, and they hated him hard.

That asshole—pardon my French, but it’s so.

No thanks, I stick to coffee. Hard stuff

was what my ex used to wet his whistle

and make him sharp for following spies,

and cocaine, too, I suspect. Myself, I don’t

need a jumpstart when loving’s on my mind.

I got a tummy tuck, a boob job, a wardrobe

straight from Penney’s Gay Parisian line.

You’re a devil, but you smile like a G.I. on leave,

and I can cure your entire cowlick problem.

I’ve got a chair and a whole outfit at home,

plus a queen waterbed and a Sony VCR

on credit. I’m maxed out! Grab your jacket,

buckaroo, and to hell with any sour memories.

I’ve got bourbon and branch, black lace,

and oodles of time. I’ve got a Walther

in my purse and boudoir kung fu tricks for two.

I’m here now and just for you. Call me Phyllis

or The Phyllis or Boo, then just call me in time

for breakfast. Ain’t this a lucky rendezvous?

Source: The Hollow Log Lounge (University of Illinois Press, 2003)

Blockbuster Movie Poems