901

It was a warm Saturday evening back in nineteen-sixty, and teenager Harry was off to his first date with Peggy Sue.

He arrived at her door at seven o'clock and rang on the bell.

'Come on in!' invited Peggy Sue's mum as she greeted Harry. 'Take a seat in the living room. Would you like something to drink?' she added. 'Coffee? Tea? An orange juice?'

'I'll just have a coffee, please,' replied Harry.

'So, what did you and Peggy Sue plan on doing tonight?' she enquired, pouring him a coffee.

'Oh, probably catch a movie, and then maybe grab a bite to eat at the diner, maybe take a quiet stroll on the beach afterwards.'

'Peggy Sue likes to screw, you know,' announced the mother out of the blue.

'Really?' gulped Harry, his eyebrows suddenly raised.

'Ooh, yes,' said the mum. 'When she goes out with her friends, that's all they ever want to do!'

'Wow! Is that so?' asked an incredulous Harry.

'Yes, it is!' replied mum. 'As a matter of fact, she enjoys it so much she'd probably screw all night long if we let her!'

'Hmm... well, thank you for that tip-off, Mrs Adams !' Harry murmured as he began considering an alternative plan for the evening.

A few moments later, Peggy Sue came down the stairs looking pretty as a picture in a pink blouse and a hoop skirt, and with her fair hair tied back in a bouncy ponytail.

She said a shy 'Hi' to Harry.

'Have fun, you two!' said her mother as they left.

An hour later, a dishevelled Peggy Sue burst into the house and slammed the front door behind her.

'The Twist, Mum!' she cried angrily to her mother in the kitchen. 'The bloody dance is called the...Twist!'

The vicar asked if anyone in the congregation would like to offer the usual thanks for prayers that had been answered.

A lady rose from the end bench and walked briskly up to the podium.

"Yes, I would," she stated; "I have a huge 'Thanks' to express. You see, three months ago, my dear husband Gary O'Shea had an awful bike crash and his scrotum was completely crushed. The injuries were so horrific that the doctors didn't know if they'd be able to help him."

Everyone heard a muffled gasp from the men in the congregation as they imagined the unutterable pain that Gary must have suffered.

"Gary was in agony, and unable to hug me or the kids, because every move caused him terrible pain. His disability was heartbreaking," she went on. "We all prayed fervently as the surgeons performed a delicate and exhaustive operation, and they were able to painstakingly piece together his barbarised scrotum, and wrap wire around it to keep it in place."

Again, the men in the congregation squirmed uncomfortably as they imagined the awful surgery performed on Gary.

"Now," she finished, her voice quavering emotionally, "Gary is out of hospital and the doctors say that in time, his crushed scrotum ought to recover completely. So, I just want to say, thank you Lord!"

All the men sighed with relief. Then the vicar rose and hesitantly asked if anyone else wished to say anything.

A man rose and hobbled gingerly to the podium. "Hello folks," he said, "I'm Gary."

The whole congregation held its breath.

"I just want to tell my wife that the word is sternum."

902

September Eleventh Two Thousand One

= Then we spot trouble, death omens even.
= Unwholesome events; both penetrated.
= One low event - Detonate them, Pres. Bush!
= Melt tower seven; no hope beneath dust.
= The hot steel beams open, venture down.
= Bereavement now, he told the upset son.
= Seen Bush plot there; vowed atonement.
= Our best men owe help on the vendettas.

903

[This month marked the 15th anniversary of 9/11. To commemorate the event, and as a tribute to the new WTC tower One World Trade Center, here's Emma Lazarus's "The New Colossus" - the poem engraved on the Statue of Liberty - and its anagram, which employs a couple of relevant constraints:]

The New Colossus
(The sonnet on the Statue of Liberty)

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

To the undefiled One World Trade Center
How grimly might one guild with hate-filled minds
Erase a mighty stone and hit another!
Flames mark the zone where mirth was left behind;
Rays that once shone were quite unfairly smothered:
Extremist fury cloned itself, it seems.
Each bruise postponed the wide-eyed, timid slant;
Debates weren't honest fights but loathsome screams
Or some old-fashioned hate of immigrants.
Must almost everyone prefer to hear
The politician-drones, with simple words -
Or oracles, so prone to spread dull fears,
Who know the Big One "had not yet occurred"?
Embrace these bygone plagues as healing sores -
Reminding us why one blight might make more.


[The constraints: In a monospaced font, an acrostic on the left side spells out One World Trade Center's other name, and the tower is represented visually through the sonnet's 15 one's (which stand for the 15 years since the event):]

To the undefiled One World Trade Center
How grimly might one guild with hate-filled minds
Erase a mighty stone and hit another!
Flames mark the zone where mirth was left behind;
Rays that once shone were quite unfairly smothered:
Extremist fury cloned itself, it seems.
Each bruise postponed the wide-eyed, timid slant;
Debates weren't honest fights but loathsome screams
Or some old-fashioned hate of immigrants.
Must almost everyone prefer to hear
The politician-drones, with simple words -
Or oracles, so prone to spread dull fears,
Who know the Big One "had not yet occurred"?
Embrace these bygone plagues as healing sores -
Reminding us why one blight might make more.