Author: H.

The refrigerator said to the kitchen range

I’m more important than you,

People can live without cooking,

But imagine if you didn’t have any place

To keep the meat, and the milk,

And the six pack of beer.

 

That may be, the range said,

But I’m more important than the dishwasher.

People can always wash dishes by hand,

But how would they get hot water

For their coffee and tea?

 

Don’t forget me, said the microwave oven.

I can heat water. I can make popcorn.

I can make those frozen tamales people like.

 

You don’t make them, said the blender.

They’re already made. All you do is thaw.

That’s pretty basic, as I see it.

On the other hand, I can blend,

Mix, puree, make smoothies.

Who else can say that?

 

The refrigerator looked at the kitchen range,

And said, I think you’re pretty cute.

Likewise, said the range. If you really tried,

You could definitely turn me on.

 

That’s ridiculous, said the toaster.

You can’t even touch each other.

But I’ve got slots where people can put things.

It feels good, especially bagels

That are nice and plump.

 

Just then the washing machine spoke up,

Loudly, because it was in the laundry closet.

Let me tell you, the things I get to handle.

Once it was this article, I don’t know what it’s called,

From Victoria’s Secret.

 

That’s nothing, said the dryer.

I got to give it a tumble, fluff it.

You just made it wet.

 

Stop arguing, said the TV set in the living room,

Does anybody sit for hours watching you?

They open your door or turn on your burner

And throw dirty stuff inside you and that’s it.

What a boring way to live.

 

No, no, said the stereo system,

People don’t care what they see on your screen,

They’re just zoned out and passing time.

But when they listen to me they’re interested,

They’re engaged.

 

But the point is, the refrigerator said,

Nobody really needs you. You’re not essential

Like me. I’m not saying that because

I think I’m better than you, it’s just a fact.

 

Stop it, said the crock pot. You’re being absurd.

We’ve all got our roles to play.

Take mine, sitting here all day simmering.

Do you think that’s fun?

No, but it’s my role and I don’t complain about it.

 

That’s right, said the juicer,

People could pull things out of the ground

And eat them raw. They could wash their

Clothes in a ditch and dry them on a tree limb.

They could read a book instead of listening

To music or watching TV. Nobody needs us.

 

That’s sad, said the toaster, what would I do?

They’d throw you away, said the dishwasher,

Like some piece of worthless trash.

I don’t want to spend my last years

In a dump somewhere, said the refrigerator,

And the range said, why don’t we get out of here,

While we still can.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

We’ve all heard the song

In all its shades and voices

And we’ve gotten the message

Inscribed in that sentiment.

 

But some of us heard it

Long before its plangent

Delivery by a rock star.

My own brother and I

Growing up not far from

Father Flanagan’s Boy’s Town,

A place we might have been,

If not for a father and mother,

A fact I was sometimes thankful for,

And sometimes not.

 

The image, a boy walking,

Carrying a smaller boy on his back,

And speaking to a hidden presence:

He ain’t heavy, father, he’s my brother.

I could never quite imagine my own brother,

Two years older and many years wiser,

Taking on such a burden.

 

Heavy. As in That’s heavy, man.

Speech for hipsters, wannabes,

A strange, distant world.

Hidden by certain words, gestures,

Accouterments of being without

Familiar shape and substance.

 

In the company of those who appreciated

All that was foreign to parents

And unconscious siblings, he would

Acknowledge my presence with a

Smile curved in mischief and say

He aint’ heavy, he’s my brother.

And feeling uncertain though grateful

For the acknowledgment,

I would allow my own small smile

To twitch at the corners of my mouth.

 

© Dennis Hathaway

 

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For reasons not entirely clear,

The earth tilted too far on its axis

And everybody in North America

Slid south. Over the border

Into those regions filled with

Drug dealers, psychopathic gangs,

Men asleep in doorways

Beneath their sombreros,

Women with babies on their backs,

Rivers filled with crocodiles,

Jungles alive with wild beasts,

Cities steaming with lust and corruption.

 

The Canadians made the best of things,

Learned the language, the geography,

The culture far older and more exquisite

Than they had ever imagined

In their smug northern sanctuary.

 

But the Americans could not be bothered

To learn to say more than, cerveza, por favor.

They called all the men Jose,

And all the young women Chiquita.

And wondered where all the burros were.

 

 © Dennis Hathaway

 

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