My Buddy's Girlfriend
by Larry Schug
I once rented a basement house on an old farm
between dead Silver Corners and deader Jakeville
with a couple guys I worked with at the packing plant.
There was a hand pump in the yard for water
and an outhouse out back by the rock pile
where old bottles might be found,
filled with mud and decaying leaves, but unbroken.
What I remember about that basement is this,
I pissed in a fruit jar I kept by the bed,
rather than face that cold outhouse
in the middle of a Minnesota January night.
I put up with the odor until morning,
when I emptied the bottle in a snowbank,
a yellow splotch, like a Charolais bull signing his name.
Suddenly, one morning the outhouse door opened,
you came out cursing the cold,
women can’t pee in a jar, you said.
I laughed out loud, wished
you were going back inside to warm up my bed.