I can stand the stupidity of Kelly Welly
and the way Mark can’t see through her ploys.
I can deal with Mark’s inability
to comprehend that all guys
with sideburns and all women
with beefy arms are up to no good,
but add to that the tedium of Backstage
at Lost Forest, Dad’s armchair pronouncements,
Rusty’s interminable gap-toothed grin,
and dogs smart enough to solve anything
but how to get home. And then,
there’s the perspective.
I never know
from one panel to the next how big
Mark’s head will be, or how long
his legs. My bras range from 32A
to 40DD. The house shrinks
and expands with alarming irregularity.
Don’t even mention
the word balloons: talking beavers,
tattle-tale squirrels, the spying geese.
So now that Mark has left again
on his most recent “assignment,”
I’m packing a little bag,
taking the credit card and catching
a plane for New York.
I’ve got a job lined up
at an ad agency. I’ve already contacted a lawyer,
so I know I’ll get at least half
the royalties. I’ll find a cute
apartment, get some decent clothes
and some furniture made of something
other than knotty pine. Who knows–
maybe I’ll start my own strip.
Who knows? Maybe someday
some porcupine will tell Mark
that I’m gone.