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Vanya

Our new neighbors are

just fine, I guess, they

seem nice enough but

they’re the kinda folks that

leave the porch lights on all day


Not like Vanya,

that middle-aged magic woman

— a witch, if you were daring

(I wasn’t) —

who’d have her Tinder dates

roll up Uber-style, always

black luxury sedans,

then cook ‘em

a nice steak dinner before

whatever

she used to get up to in that basement

with all kinda lights flashing, and my wife

said she heard wails but I said

if Vanya’s into the kinky stuff that’s her business

Never did notice those guys leaving

figured I must’ve missed ‘em

sneaking out in the morning gloom


At least until one morning

when the wind blew the lid back

on her trash can

and I smelled the brimstone

and I saw the charred, jumbled lumps

and I stared like an idiot until Vanya

slammed the lid back down and

puffed out her bosom and

smiled her Elvira smile and

asked me how things were going and

I mumbled something and

went back inside to eat my sensible breakfast


Anyways Vanya was always real responsible about her porch lights




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