Big Yellow House

We were two tv teenagers
roaming a sterile suburb
with ski hats on and clouds

of breath in the blank night air.
Dizzy with flickering images
of our soon-to-come Christmases

we decided to hold our old lady
history teacher hostage
with some dumb cornball carol

she’d kindly have to endure
while we sneered our solemn serenade
at her open front door in the cold.

We giggled up her wide driveway
and pressed the glowing doorbell dot
when we got to her front door.

Bong! A mean old man’s
birdface burst at us
through a narrow gap in the door

and we had to start singing.
We blundered through a vague melody
in the frozen awkward air

and I saw Mrs. Grupp
almost unable to look at us
behind her glaring husband.

Our faces blazed with shame
when we croaked our last notes and he told us
our singing was the WORST he’d ever heard

and slammed the door.
At school the next day Mrs. Grupp
called us to her desk before class

and apologized for her husband—
but right before we’d come he’d learned
he’d lost money on the stock market!



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