ANOTHER NIGHT NOBODY CAME ALIVE
Lester had no way of knowing
how down a day he faced,
how deep a depression
his flesh had inherited.
He had no idea
he’d get out of bed,
poor poetry pouring
from every pore
as if his dreams
had been gang-banged
first by roving similes
then by skinny succubi.
All Lester could know
was how urgently
he needed a shower
to wash away
derogatory words
imaginary love leaves
on its victim’s ego.
—from Rattle #7, Summer 1997
