Song of My Sitcoms
Silvery miniature people debouch from the glass and environ my parlor, their images snowy
and sweet. I loafe at my ease and watch them long and long.
Here is the learned professor, marooned on a tropical hummock, in company with the fire-
headed siren, the stout, avuncular boatman, and his gibbering, simian mate.
Here is the golden-haired sorceress, her nose pert and mobile, commanding occult
convolutions in unfailing, devoted, and steadfast defense of her sweetheart, though he be
a fatuous dolt.
I see the vocabular horse, the vehicular matriarch, the apple-cheeked, flying novitiate, the
black-hooded, cape-clad crusader who haunts my dreams, his well-muscled thighs
athwart my body.
The least of them is hilarious to me. I take them into my body. Their performances become
my performances. I go forth into the world well-witted, giddy, chortling, bucked, full of
blackguard jibes and ironical license.
No suffering, no misery, no horror, no hunger, no wallow or filth can stanch the flow of my
mirth. I am filled with giggles. O my dead! If but you knew. Regardless the situation,
hilarity will ensue.
Dennis Caswell is the author of the poetry collection Phlogiston (Floating Bridge Press). His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Rattle, Bluestem, Crab Creek Review, and assorted other journals and anthologies, and he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lives outside Woodinville, Washington and works as a software engineer in the aviation industry. His dorky and not-very-compatible website may be found at denniscaswell.com.