Ethan Lucas

Harold’s Wife

Well, there they go again. 

Loud, and fake, acting  like 

they haven’t seen  Each 

other in weeks. Even I’d be 

glad to get  away from 

Harold Every once in a 

while. What could they  

possibly be so happy about? 

I saw him bringing  in two 

bags of groceries.

Two.

Who needs that much kale? 

She’s probably forcing  him 

to eat it,  Geez! poor man. 

Though I wouldn’t mind if 

Harold ate some  

Vegetables once in a while  

instead of his usual  Chips 

and beer.

I would cook

For him, but I

Don’t have time,  Obviously.  

Oh, there she is,  watering the 

plants,  like she has all  the 

time in the world. Who has 

time to water plants?

I would water mine but  I have 

more important  things to do. 

They’re hosting another  

dinner party tonight? Didn’t  

they just have  people over 

last weekend? What, they 

don’t get sick  of people? I 

haven’t had anyone over since 

2004,  but that’s by choice, 

you know.

I don’t need the

fake chit-chat. They  

probably do, all those 

perfect  couples clinking 

glasses and talking about 

What? Their next vacation?

That’s probably why  They’re 

broke, most likely. Like I’m 

supposed to be impressed.

Oh, he’s grilling again.

What is that,  Steak? Of 

course.  Harold can’t even 

boil water  but look at them 

over there,  flipping burgers 

like  he’s in a commercial. I 

bet she made him  wear an 

apron. She’s the kind 

who’d  do that. Definitely 

has one  that says “Kiss the 

Cook!!”  Disgusting. Their 

music is always  so loud. I 

would never play  music like 

that;

Harold also complains,

Rightfully so, the lyrics are

Stomach-turning. People these days 

don’t know what real music is. The 

cassette tapes from  the 80s’ are 

superior, anyway.  Maybe if we 

played some  music once in a 

while… But no, Harold’s idea of 

excitement is watching channel 9 

until  He falls asleep in the recliner. 

Sometimes I talk to him just to see 

if  he’s still awake.

Spoiler alert:  he’s 

not.

Now look at them,  holding 

hands while they walk to their  

Car. Is that  necessary? I mean, 

you’re going to the same place. I 

would save  some mystery for 

later,  right? But no, they’ve  got 

to be adorable  at all hours of  

the day. Don’t they? It’s like 

they’re  doing it just  to spite me. 

They probably think I’m lonely, 

That I’m just  sitting here, 

spying  on them. But  I’m not 

stupid,

I know what’s really  

Going on over there. 

I’m not lonely. I have 

Harold,  the man 

who’s taken  

permanent 

residence  in front of 

the TV  and whose 

idea  of a date is 

asking me to pass  

the remote.

I don’t need their happiness. 

I’m perfectly content. Oh, for 

crying out loud,  now 

they’re  dancing in the living 

room! Who does that? I give 

it six months,  tops. Maybe a 

year.

American slur poem

Oh American’t

Land of the Hot Dog Eaters,

Whose Jumbo Jaws chew on promises

Like gristle, then spit them out into starving faces

Their laughter crackles, charred and brittle,

As if their smiles could make others jealous— 

They believe themselves the salt of the earth, 

Clogging up the arteries of history.

But they are imperialists with ketchup-stained crowns, 

Devouring land and culture with ravenous teeth.

A past deep-fried in greed and conquest,

Drips down their Star-Spangled bibs,

Their hearts as heavy as their plates,