Oompa

She was a one-man band and I loved her from harp rack to ankle bell. And when Iris was in town I’d feed her quarters when she set-up on Eighth Street, or even kick in a buck to encourage passersby when she played downtown.  Either way we’d wind up making love behind the rhododendrons in Westside Park. No one saw, but everyone heard the groans of her concertina.

For her part, Iris loved me for my white boxer and the supply of beer and soda bread I’d come into possession of.  Also we both loved ABBA’s Chess.  

Tonight, as most, we walk back to her Uncle Mike’s, drunk, giddy and fearful of cops. We’re accosted by one at the funeral parlor up the street.  Feigning sobriety, we’re let go when I say I’m returning from visiting my pregnant wife in the hospital. 

It’s more-or-less true, but Iris need not know.