The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits in thunder,


    Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,


    From livid curtain''s hue, a tangram emerges: a country."


    Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How pleasant


    To spend one''s vacation en la casa de Popeye," she scratched


    Her cleft chins solitary hair. She remembered spinach


    And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.


    "M''love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out in thunder


    Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched


    The part of his head under his hat. The apartment


    Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant


    Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country."


    Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.


    Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach


    When the door opened and Swee''pea crept in. "How pleasant!"


    But Swee''pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. "Thunder


    And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall Popeye''s apartment


    Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched."


    Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched


    Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country


    One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the


    apartment


    And all that it contains, myself and spinach


    In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder


    At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant


    Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant


    Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched


    Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder."


    She grabbed Swee''pea. "I''m taking the brat to the country."


    "But you can''t do that—he hasn''t even finished his spinach,"


    Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.


    But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment


    Succ.u.mbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it''s quite pleasant


    Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from spinach


    Then I don''t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over"—she scratched


    One dug pensively—"but Wimpy is such a country


    Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder


    Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,


    The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched


    His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.


    By John Ashbery