By Len Kuntz
Satan and dentists and clowns.
My mother’s cat claw fingernails and the grime beneath Father’s.
Snakes and rats and old people’s blue-veined hands.
Now it is
mornings and Wallingford, our calico, staring at me
as if I’m an axe murderer.
The unmade bed, warm on one side,
the sheets tangled up with nothing.
The bed.
The bed.
The big unmade bed.
whoa. this tastes morbid. big explosion of black matter mixed with soiled fingernail clippings flinging out like boomerangs. stellar!
(just so you know, i couldn’t remember the word for ‘boomerangs’ and had to google image search for ‘ninja weapons’, than while it was loading i remembered the word boomerang).
terrific poem, len