by Denise Duhamel

bullet Bio


My husband has an idea for a fan that sucks in air,
rather than blow it out, that he’s sure could abolish ants
at picnics. He’d like to be the first rep to export Splenda
to Europe, most of which still relies on saccharin.
He can’t see why there isn’t an infant’s car seat
that has wheels and legs that fold underneath,
so it could double as a stroller. His hypothetical Filipino restaurant,
The Adobo Hut, serves up chicken and pork stew, made with soy sauce
and vinegar, so leftovers actually become tastier by the day.
Should The Adobo Hut be bought out and franchised into a chain,
my husband could single-handedly revolutionize fast food
and we’d retire early as millionaires.
He makes fistfuls of cash on stocks, on some website
he found where he can “pretend” invest.
He’s sure his poetry workshop would make a great reality show,
the camera following students home afterwards
so that they can gripe about the insensitivity of their classmates.
The camera could follow my husband home, too,
and watch him toss his backpack on the floor
then sit down at his computer to work on his blog.
During a good semester/season, the students would all be sleeping
with each other, maybe even with a professor down the hall.
You should pitch it, I say, stressing an internet component
in which viewers could read the poems and vote.
Often my nose is cold when we travel in winter—his solution:
a sock-like warmer I could wear on my honker,
held in place by elastic bands hooked behind my ears.
Here, in Florida, he considers setting up power stations
for the handicapped and elderly to recharge their Rascal batteries
which often run down when they’re out and about doing errands.
He’s keen on developing training wheels
to fit adult-size bicycles, for those—like himself—
who didn’t learn to ride when they were children.
If only Americans could be taught to carry things
on their heads, my husband laments,
they’d have much better posture. Thus his idea
for tote bags with stretchy cap-like bottoms to be fitted to the skull.
You should patent that, I say about every idea he has. But mostly
my husband just likes to dream. That is, until we actually see one
of his inventions come to life, a mother transforming
her kid’s car seat with a flick of a button into a buggy.
The comfy baby inside gurgles, then spits up on his shirt.
This time my husband is going to act fast—on his idea
for the germ-phobic. What people really need,
he surmises, is a disposable tube-like covering
to slide over the filthy handles of supermarket carts.


Next Poem
The Redneck Review 2007