By Tyson Bley
Drugging an infant was awful.
The disruptive behavior
of the infant was awful.
Nostalgic for my rental car,
I groaned until the nostalgia
was ground to powder on the floor.
Turning over the mousetrap was interesting:
the thing was actually a nanopatch.
Formerly a stealth child-batterer was stuck in it.
Not stealthy enough.
But the stealth child-batterer was actually already rotting in it.
That was back when mousetraps caught such things.
Anyway the nanopatch alleviated the awful behavior,
it caught the screaming, the awfulness.
Which is actually pretty crafty because the disruptive behavior
has a thing for coalitionary killing:
your infant (which you decided to drug)
mobilizes allies in alleys, in throat tunnels,
and together – infant hand in hand with
awful behavior – they wield the force
I wielded to lurch out of my rental car
right into the stomp-path of social services.
Being actually pretty evil, a globe-shaped globemaster,
the infant was, in clinical terms, at the helm of this
and after drugging him I enjoyed
the placidity not just in its, but my own behavior,
marveling at the etiquette posters
on the government buildings
and the Harry Potter-themed ceramics in gardens.
Oh, I did a lot of dwelling in shade-sprinkled places.
I never had the guts to contaminate the saliva
in the rattling propaganda
of the birthday boy, on his birthday. The customer’s
rampage through the little store
was nothing if not the disruptive behavior’s fire
in the manifold, in the metal frame exploding
after squeezing it until proven deadly,
bursting into your float and away, slack-faced and content, you float.
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