Sorry about that, bleeding all over
your new carpet. Uncovered
fans beg me to test the reliability
of my flesh. There is an overexcited salamander
in the brush re-growing limbs, obsessed
with its own terrible powers. Its body
is a red, smacking pair of lips. Harm occurs
but, boy, do we truck on. We must shelter,
there is a poison arrow dart soaring in
from another poem. All of this
is set inside a circus-y TV
news program. You fight me
to pull it off
the air. Neighbors have all gone
mad, everyone wants something
that is more useful than what they’ve got,
everyone is screaming for a do-over
because there isn’t anything
that’ll do just yet.
Jeff Wasserboehr lives in western Massachusetts where he is earning his Master’s of Fine Arts degree at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. At Umass he teaches undergraduate writing and works at the Massachusetts Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Word Riot, Little Fiction, and the Tulane Review.