By Yago
Wasn’t it at a bus stop or something
where someone had used a white board marker
to write out a prophecy about evil
the scrawny letters
naked, huddled tight,
avoiding the bad weather.
I can’t help but think of evil as a bus –
completely harmless
a number glowing on its forehead
sighing into its stops,
everyone’s limbs are intact
and I need to get somewhere
so I’m sitting inside,
waiting.
Hunger is the best
at promising home, not in song
but in grunts you can trust.
I wrap them all up
in a napkin,
save it for later.
There is shock
when I look down
and the wound has grown fluffier
a habitat
where the past tracks you
down in a feline sort of way –
we all get zapped
from time to time
all make silly faces
when we fight or fun or cry
but rarely when we’re waiting.
I get home where nothing is as evil
as my ecstatic dog so I feed him.