by Trapper Markelz
I found myself lying in bed debating
the death of the dinosaurs with a creationist.
His girlfriend filed down her fingernails
so she could scrape my rib cage in the pool.
I think she files down her teeth as well.
I’d breathe heavy in those rooms, fighting
over scraps and taking fleshy prizes.
Hours I’d spend in a sound-proof box,
putting up a good front, channeling Mozart,
let me play for you Ah vous dirai-je, Maman.
Aren’t I fancy? This is the real world with its
cement walls, heavy petting, and petty wars.
Most of my day was spent figuring out how
to touch and be touched. If there is one lesson,
it would be to keep your door open
and your hands ready, and there is always
someone working against you to prevent it.
About the Author
Trapper Markelz is a husband, father of four, poet, musician, and cyclist, who writes from Boston, Massachusetts. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the journals Baltimore Review, Stillwater Review, and others. You can learn more about Trapper at trappermarkelz.com.