THE TRUTH 

   by Dick Bakken

This could be a true poem. But you
won’t know. Not unless
you share a duplex wall with Larry and Helen
outside Tacoma.
There. Something made up already.
Not Larry. Oh you know that
when you see him on his birthday slam balls
to Mary Schnack in her tennis shortie.
Helen doesn’t want to see. In just a robe she
downs one more swallow
by the hot oven and squeezes icings onto cupcakes
for each of Larry’s two-dozen years.
If that snazzy little Schnack
even squats to tie his shoe, tell me it’s black
and from there
we’ll guess everything. Like Larry bounces
in after dark to get his birthday smooch and a beer.
Spread in a heart across the table—
all those pretty cupcakes.
You drank my last beer he says, lobbing a pink one
into the front room where it pops under
the couch. Too damn hot in here, as he snatches up again.
Hanging out in that robe!—
and he pitches one by one in there
under the couch. I could say slams with his racket.
But I want Helen to bang it on her oven like
Fuck!— Fuck!— Fuck!—
Not you he grunts wrestling the robe, shoving her stripped
onto the porch, hitting the bolt. And maybe you
could be telling the rest. No headlights, nobody in the yards,
Helen tight to the door whispering Oh god
Larry. Please.
I’ll be good. I’ll be good.
And she is good. Stretched snazz-up on the spread,
Larry naked in his black
rubber shoes, leaping over coffee table
to couch. Bouncing
above twenty-four cupcakes that’ll harden there five months.
If there really is no duplex wall, no
Mary forever, how will you say what’s happening next?
He prances past the Mixmaster— buzzing!—
Helen’s robe flying from 
round his neck. Onto the bed. Off. Back on. Squashes
fistfuls of icing
into his face.
I’m a big birthday bee! Falls onto her.
Bounces up over a night stand—cake pans—jockstrap—and back.
Here’s my stinger!
Helen really does laugh. She wants to
love him. But can’t. And
that’s the truth. Even if there’s no one to tell
it. Maybe Larry’s birthday, maybe all these things
happen different days. Or not until tomorrow. I want—
the poem. It’s all there is. But you’ll have to
give me the true end. Please tell it now.
I’m standing here as lost as Larry.
And I need you. I need you.
I need you.