Had I been 53 in eighth grade
I’d have written this poem. It starts
with an image of attack dogs. I’m running,
running. My teachers are comparing
1968 cars. My parents are busy
being parents. My preacher dashes
from God the Father to God the Son
to God the Holy Spirit. A busy day!
I feel my ass
blood running down my thighs,
the dogs lay down, bark to be petted—
I oblige. What should I do
when growls surround me
and the dogs look so hungry, oh
and what the hell,
why not just surrender?
