Sailor Man
David J. Thompson
I often wonder about the sex life
of Popeye and Olive Oyl. I worry
that he treated her like he would
any shore leave whore in Manila
or Hamburg or Rio De Janeiro.
I hope Popeye never said anything
unkind about Swee’Pea’s real father
or Olive Oyl’s anorexia, and just tossed
some money on the dresser and hurried
back down to the Union Hall with his buddies
to ship out again. But no, that’t can’t be,
I know the sailor man wouldn’t do that
to a woman like Olive Oyl, the object
of so many lonely shipboard dreams.
I’m sure he brought her silver bracelets
and silk robes from his voyages,
and especially ornate Turkish slippers
for her huge feet she loved him
to massage. Popeye must have been
gentle and pleasing as a sea breeze
in the bed where I’m certain a patient
and grateful Olive Oyl scattered
spinach leaves among the rose petals
to help make more than his biceps grow.
