BY HARRY WAITZMAN
My poetry is pumped up by smog and mercury,
the lines stretch like knotted rubber bands. I wish
there was more horseradish in my life, instead of
sugar-coated Cheerios. Corn syrup thins my blood.
Salt and pepper preserves my tongue. Honest
decay, skunk stink tosses my breath. I feel faint,
but stench from fish boxes revives me. Combat
oils my brain. I nibble on Toastees and Pop-tarts.
I lurch on a tree-sprung path diverging below
a giant wasp’s nest my son David battered to shreds
this morning. I rely on an owl and ten sparrows
to whirl and shore up the eaves of my house.