Elfie, Mr. Tweedy, and the Missing Insurance Claim Check
She is world renowned,
for her stained glass skiers in
Vail Village she cuts colored
pieces of glass places them carefully on
patterns of white Styrofoam
numbered in sequence, one
two, three in her shop she
fluxes between the cracks
before soldering with her hot iron
she reads novels in German
with and accent says,
“I still haven’t received my
insurance claim check for
Mr. Tweedy’s broken
World Alpine, 1989 piece.”
We had packed it and shipped it
ever so painstakingly in
bubble wrap, wrapped twice
after cutting foam panels for ends
and carefully placing it in cardboard,
suspended in foam peanuts
Taped in double boxes, prudently.
I should have known when
Mad Maxine the crazy U.P.S.
driver in her brown uniform
and red laced hiking boots
black smudged hands, from handling cartons
would come in to the pack-n-ship
telling dirty jokes,
“Do you know why Jewish women
have wrinkles around their eyes. It’s
from squinting at their husband’s
penis behind closed doors.”
Saying, “You want me to do what to it?”
She looks at the parcel with
the “This Side Up” and “Fragile”
stickers plastered all over it and
says, “Hey, what state is
the city of “Fragile” in anyway,
and did you know these
are supposed to be packaged
so that they can be
thrown at least ten feet.”
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