RICH FURMAN, Ph.D., was an assistant professor in the School of Social Work at Colorado State University. His poetry has been published, or is soon to be published, in Hawai’i Review, Black Bear Review, Red Rock Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Penn Review, Old Red Kimono, Colere, Pearl, The Journal of Poetry Therapy, Poetry Motel, and well over 150 poems in nearly 100 literary journals. In July 2003, he moved to Omaha to teach at the School of Social Work at University of Nebraska-Omaha.

                                                                                      respect


A hair dresser before, he traveled the globe following lines of powder and pills with his wife, his assistant, his model. That was before his liver blew like a truck tire slamming down the interstate, maybe too much speed, or just poorly made material. Perhaps fate slammed her foot on the breaks moments before certain wreck. Now fifty, he pops more pills than ever before, tranquilizers to keep his ever rejecting liver silent. Jaundice skin melting easily in the sun, we watch a lot of movies. Mostly, juvenile comedies, penis in apple pie gags, awkward sex in backs of minivans with the PTA moms, stupid flip lines that we repeat incessantly. Of course, the ubiquitous teenage flaccidity. The more inane, the fulfilled. The fifty year old ex-hair dresser, his unsteady gate and orange din, and his college professor. Also ate kennels of heart attack chilidogs, grilled with grease and onions, covered in sour kraut, jalapenos and quasi cheese spread. Spicy food is poison to his liver. But we do not speak of this, instead gossip about the women in my class. We speak of breast we cannot have, legs we would not want, and mouths we are glad only speak to us in sentences few. They tell him things I am not meant to hear. I am fascinated and almost flattered that they know which side of my pants my jewels are stored - he loves to watch me blush. We have not spoken often since I moved west, and he was too weak to fly out for my wedding. A stroke late last summer, he has death on his mind. After speaking to him on the phone, I am driven by my car, find myself at the nearest fifty's style dinner. Two chilidogs, lots of peppers. I power down the first in seconds. The second more slowly, let the cheese drip off my face. Close my eyes as I sense the chilies working their way into my body. For dessert, order a slice of apple  pie, watch it sit perfect in the middle of the table. Take a bite, let memories wash over me. Just out of respect.

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© 2003 Rich Furman