The Blue Moon Review - Poetry

Poem by Penny Cagan

Remembering Herman Munster

Twelve years ago I was walking down Fifth Avenue
with Bonnie who had just arrived from the Napa Valley,
when he strode towards us: a man so tall
his shadow formed a dark canopy above.
His eyes, nose, and mouth turned down
like an aging clown who had given up laughter.
Bonnie, not shy, shouted out to him:
"Herman Munster, I love you."
He squinted down at us, two short women,
and said: "Yeah, so what. Get a life."
That night we tried to remember watching
"The Munsters," how old we were, what life
was like then. For me it was after school
in reruns, with my mother passed out on the
couch from booze. Bonnie said she wanted
to be Herman's wife, wear long moldy dresses,
with her hair dyed black, falling to her waist.
She threw herself on my bed and said she
loved this city and vowed to stay forever.

Today I read in The New York Times:
"Fred Gwynne, Popular Actor, Is Dead At 66."
I never knew he was a Harvard graduate,
or wrote children's books, or wanted to be
a portrait painter. Bonnie eventually moved
back to California. She said she was tired
of the crime and dirt and noise of the city,
she missed her home, the green hills, the wineries,
the blue birds that landed near her feet.
She wrote of loving food, gaining weight,
of almost dying from diabetes,
and then I never heard from her again.
Tonight I lie in the dark
thinking of Herman Munster,
the refrigerator thumps,
and up in the city sky beyond where I can see
a full summer moon looks down on all of us,
and a lone saxophone plays from a floor above
with its drawn-out, musk-filled, lonely notes.