By Wesley Houp
Nothing satisfies
more than your own
frightening reflection
in the side of a recently
washed automobile.
The stumpy legs.
That elongated torso.
Like 72 ribs-worth.
A monstrous
turkey sternum.
An army of Eves
waiting to beat god
with shaleighleighs.
And your head,
so unheadlike,
invisible vice grips
clamping your scalp
to your chin.
A horrific photo
someone found
in a shoebox
at a yard sale
in west Texas.
Really wrecks
the imaginary self
you carried
from high school
in your grandfather’s
toolbox.
At that point
you were top shelf,
quarterback.
Diamond Jim
with an automobile.
Now you’re off
to the side a bit,
skewered
on a grill.
Your days just sizzling.
In your dreams
your belly hangs now
below your waist.
You can’t figure out why.
So you wash your car
incessantly like a dog
licking a wound
looking for a thorn
or a flea.
But you find nothing.
And you still want to howl.
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