Down The Drain Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

I'm sitting in Papa John's
at a table near the window
when she sashays in-
five foot two, eyes of blue,
silk blouse and snug jeans
on a frame most women
would kill for-
I'd sent back the scrambled eggs,
undercooked and runny,
when a dish like this redheaded
goddess glides over Papa John's
humble doorsill to awaken
an appetite I thought dormant-

She loved movies, she told me,
but one movie she'd slept through
was about two dorky guys running
in the Olympics a long time ago.
'Before my time, ' she sniffed.
Must have been CHARIOTS OF FIRE
I said-won an Oscar in 1981.
'Oscar, schmoscar! I feel asleep.
You can ask my ex! '

The title was 'Down the Drain, '
she said-a story about a nympho
and her plumber.
Not one bloody publisher
would even bother to read it-
'They're all bastards, '
I said, 'but let me submit
it to my agent, OK? '