Issue |
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January |
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a poem by T. Andrew Huddleston
Chile Verde
There are signs in the night, like a too-late microwave burrito,
or a solitary star--the single eye of the predator in the sky
stalking my strange march down cold sidewalk life--or even a truck
in the distance, rusty doors shutting and then tire squeals like the
heavenly host.
The burrito is a little too soggy, but I bite into it anyway.
If you listen quite closely, ear to the smoke, you can hear hoofbeats
on crumpled piano strings. You can hear teeth gnashing at the last bones
of men. You can hear the trigger pull. You can hear the knife stab, the
noose finally tighten, the chair hit the floor, the legs kick their last gesture
of thrill, Satan's lips curl in a grin, the urine drip, drip, drip to the floor.
And yet here I am,
with a chile verde burrito,
not quite ready to sleep.
The garbage men
will be coming soon,
and they know something about life.
or a solitary star--the single eye of the predator in the sky
stalking my strange march down cold sidewalk life--or even a truck
in the distance, rusty doors shutting and then tire squeals like the
heavenly host.
on crumpled piano strings. You can hear teeth gnashing at the last bones
of men. You can hear the trigger pull. You can hear the knife stab, the
noose finally tighten, the chair hit the floor, the legs kick their last gesture
of thrill, Satan's lips curl in a grin, the urine drip, drip, drip to the floor.
with a chile verde burrito,
not quite ready to sleep.
will be coming soon,
and they know something about life.