I skipped the Asylum tonight, the first of a long series of nights I’m going to skip.

After all these years, I really feel out of it. It’s not my place anymore.

This is the right move. So why do I feel so guilty?

So — there I was
at the Salvation Army store
with Sandra Bernhard.

She had “Pretty Lady” snarls
coming out of every pore.
I stepped over into

the red tag specials
while she let rip a snorting rant
about the lack of opportunity

for whores these days. What is the point
of being a professional, she said,
with all these amateurs cluttering up

the trade? Her wig fell off then
and I recognized the face anew: someone
the television had featured, briefly,

perhaps a lottery winner or a fugitive
with a face once blurred for legal reasons
that stayed blurred afterward.

Sandra Bernhard, wherever you are,
I have hidden a vintage jacket in your size
in a box near the aisle of broken toasters.

Come soon, your doppelganger is moving toward the door,
and if she gets loose,
there’s no telling what will happen to you:

you might end up in a place
where nearly familiar faces thrill at first glance,
and just as quickly disappear into the crowd.

Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

The Pope awakens in Nigeria
with a pen in his hand.

“I write to you, most esteemed
friend, in the hope of
succor in this hour of darkness.
I am Karol Wojytla, former Pope
of the Most Holy Roman and Apostolic
Catholic Church…”

He is aghast at
the foolishness of this. Is he not
a humble servant of God, the Holy Father
of millions, infallible in matters
of faith? Why should he need validation
in the Afterlife? Had he
had it wrong all along?

“…Due to recent uncertainties in
my life and times, I have been deprived
of my birthright and seek to protect what meager
resources I have left…”

Still trembling, he puts the pen down. He wants
to go to the window. All those people below him
in the street, waiting for a blessing…

Yes, that’s it. It’s all familiar now.
He shakes no longer, even as he begins to understand.
He looks out of the cinderblock frame
of the window, high over Lagos,
just another man
with a plan. Nothing’s changed, except this:
no one looks back at him.

“…I write to you now, as last hope
of deliverance, that I will transfer to your
account…”

What? What does he have now?
What will make them look?

i’m starting work on one, but am curious: are there any poems out there about “Nigerian Scams?”

The Furnace Review, Spring 2005