By Jason Braun
Steeped in turkey’s glaze,
L-tryptophan’s wax and wane,
mother covered me in
feathers, and father brought
a box of cobwebs to cool
the burning in my skin.
I roamed
the catacombs of Paris hunting
leeches, both of us nosing
around for something good to eat.
I followed the distant wheeze
of a squeezebox
to a man with gold coins in his eyes,
who dressed a little monkey
in a velvet schoolboy suit.
Hours later, I scalped the man
and sang: sleep little monkey,
don’t say a word.
Your new papa just bought
you a suit of solid fur.
Clutching at Straws 