When Caspar fell in love,

his younger brother felt abandoned.

He called Caspar: “Mouse,”

for his subservience to his love,

who was a ravishing Irish beauty.

She was alive in a way that Caspar was not.

He found her to be a night full of stars

that he could trust. He felt buoyant

for the fist time, as if he could butterfly

across Jamaica Bay.

His kid brother called her “Queenie,”

as he watched his brother

become her happy slave.

But Caspar didn’t seem to mind,

since he found his wife

to be a living flower

who brought technicolor

into his black and white life.

He catered to her every whim,

and prepared her daily breakfast:

fresh squeezed orange juice was de rigueur.

He delivered mail for thirty years.

and got lots of cash-filled envelopes

every Christmas.

She didn’t age well, and when she gained weight,

and her face began to look like a gargoyle,

he loved her just as much.

When his wife died, Caspar never stopped crying

until he died, dreaming she had stepdanced her way

through the portals of heaven and reserved

a place for him next to her in one of God’s double beds.