I can’t believe a little snow has fried your shovels. You guys are helpless.
I can’t believe the ziggurat of drumsticks. The pumpkin pies are helpless.
I can’t believe it’s Hotel California. Check the hell out and leave!
Ponytailing party-downers stoked on cheesy fries are helpless.
I can’t believe he can’t believe the parking has evaporated.
Disgruntled dudes with axles for ankles, this implies, are helpless.
I can’t believe this no-neck beef middle fingered that smoothie sucker.
Incise this tribute on his stone: “He was much nicer helpless.”
I can’t believe a wall and yet a wall and yet another miserable wall.
Toss your flaccid lasso, buddy. You’ll ride a geyser, helpless.
I can’t believe that salvaged souls are propped by public toilets.
Are you snug for certainty of what’s between their thighs? Or helpless?
I can’t believe these pinpricks sprinkled left to right across the gut.
The gall bladder went necrotic, David. Now are you wiser? Helpless?
David P. Miller’s chapbook, The Afterimages, was published in 2014 by Cervená Barva Press. His poems have appeared in Meat for Tea, Painters and Poets, Fox Chase Review, and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, among other publications. His poem “Kneeling Woman and Dog” was selected for the 2015 edition of Best Indie Lit New England. He is a librarian at Curry College in Milton, MA, and was a member of the interdisciplinary Mobius Artists Group for twenty-five years.