Or wheeling the corpse of a possum over
The four foot chain link and into my neighbor’s yard.
That of the unmowed, untended. He only uses
His back yard to figure eight on a clamorous
ATV that could serve no possible purpose in the city.
Because he wakes me up from my Saturday nap
With that high whine and his godaweful kids pummeling
At silence, I heave this poor comatoast fellers
Humble remains, this body of evidence, prayer
To the right god of sniveling vengeance
Right into the worn and sandy lane of my passive
Aggression. Back in the day, flinging the dead
Over the battlements was intended to spread disease.
These days it’s the only recourse a man has.
.
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