i can't get the smell of shrimp out
of my house.
the trash has been double
bagged, the counter
wiped,
the pots and pans scrubbed,
the dishwasher run
and yet, it still smells like
the wharf down on Maine Street.
i call up my go to priest,
Father Flannigan up at
St. Bernadette's to bring some
holy smoke and water
over to see what he can do.
he picks up the phone and
recognizes my voice, what,
another exorcism. i thought
we did that a few years ago
with your ex? she's back?
no, no. thank God, no.
it's this shrimp smell.
i cooked up a pound of
wild shrimp from the gulf
the other day, and it's still
in the air.
no problem, he says. i'll
send a few altar boys over
with buckets and scrub brushes.
holy water and a few holy
smoke bombs.
great i tell him. key is under
the mat.
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