Dreams of Amsterdam
By Marian Glaser © October, 2001
There was a young girl named Amsterdam Pam
who dreamed of going back to Amsterdam
especially after she’d made her gun go bam!
and shoot her husband in the arm while gam-
bling with three friends, playing poker
the day after he’d tried to choke her
and hit her, going wham, wham, wham!
She wanted to eat broodjes covered with ham
or served at breakfast with butter and jam
and go to Keukenhof on her childhood tram
to look at beds of tulips. She wanted to go to Arnhem to see bram-
bles on the banks of the Rhine. Now Sam was saying damn.
and bleeding, adding red to their Persian rug. (sham)
She wished she was cramming for an exam.
Now she’d perhaps have to cram on her tam
and prepare to go on the lam.
“With this fancy new cam-
era I’ll look like a tourist. Now I’d better vam-
oose before they lock me in the local caboose.”
She thought of all the times she’d served whiskey, bringing the bottle, not a dram.
She remembered their Christmas turkeys surrounded by yams.
She also remembered their laughter while eating clams
and feelings of triumph making a grand slam.
She’d miss Sam’s loving but not being used like a battering ram.
He always called road kill “hamster jam”.
When they’d met at a square dance he’d been introduced as Shamster Sam.
He’d tipped his hat and said, “I am no prankster ma’am.
They call me that because I bluff and win, putting my cards down, kerblam!”
He’d soon held her and kissed her until she was caught.
Now, stanching blood, mopping and bandaging was her lot.
But if she had not fired there’d be no mess here
to clean before she packed. She’d disappear.
She’d give herself time to think
if Sam was right in saying, “You belong in the clink.”