The Trip To Rome Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I sit and entertain my books,
and they respond in kind
the spouse has lost her youthful looks
much grown has her behind.
All facial muscles have retired
behind a bunch of wrinkles
the face that I once had admired
now looks like dough and sprinkles.
The sprinkles being brownish spots
that can be slightly bleached
my hand that holds forget-me-nots
belongs to a big, beached
and blubber-bound and aging whale
though that is not the issue
a human being who is male
who's reaching for a tissue
to blot the tears from bright blue eyes
because of this depressive
and now completed mean surprise
that's making me aggressive.
The photo album proves me right
there once was real beauty
today I dim the ceiling light
and do my decent duty
I pay the bills and mow the grass
and bring the bacon home
at night I sit on my fat ass
read brochures about Rome.
We wanted to vacation there
she bought a brand new dress
it probably would not be fair
to cancel, would he bless
I mean of course the bloody Pope
that just elected Kraut
what if he gave us fresh new hope
they say he has much clout
with God himself who said one time
that he made woman, also man
into exquisitely sublime
true copies of himself (he can)
so personally I think
that he'd be shocked at her visage
and grab her at the brink
perform a miracle (mirage)
and give her back to me
then we would travel to the spa
in Lourdes, which is not free
to resurrect what fills the bra
and some more nips and tugs
we might get all my money's worth
eliminate all bugs
so that the years still on this earth
will be for me more pleasant.
She asked just now about the trip
and looks like an old peasant
stands by the door, hand on big hip
and smiles when she opines
'I think we ought to ask the Pope
if he can straighten spines,
and also, (we can always hope)
would he erase those lines
that double chin and flabby arms
the ingrown nails and bunions
if God would just restore your charms
and stop you eating onions
and most of all, I'd pray quite hard
if they would grow your hair
and cut those many pounds of lard
and change you from a pear
to what I married years ago
you once were really handsome
let's give those Catholics a go
and hold the Pope to ransom.'

We went to Rome, the Pope had died
we took the holy dips
sat in the lobby where she cried
and I had a few nips.
No one would talk or understand
our marital dilemma
and while we listened to the Band
I said: 'My dearest Emma,
we've come this far and I did look
at all the Southern Belles
and even bought that Playboy book
that the hotel here sells.
I'm now convinced that on this globe
there is no better spouse
so would you slip into your robe
but first take off your blouse.'