Hey, kiddo what’s that smell coming from
your room? Is what your mother will
most likely ask you when the shriveled up
rabbit, who lives underneath your bed,
begins to reek of sweetened rot.
And if your mother were to find
this out there is no doubt you’d
be as dead as the rabbit
and buried right next to him.
Underneath the bronze mattress.
But then again, who can blame you;
when you saw that poor thing on the road,
not alive but also not dead
as the trucks rolled over him
and flattened his stomach every time.
So you made him a resident of your
own life. And now he’s under
there with your Grandfather’s
edition of the Merriam-Webster.
But at least he isn’t alone like you.
You probably wish you were that rabbit.
206 bones snapped like twigs.
You would be as thin as you
were at age 5. A corpse but in the right way.
You would be young again. Even if you’re still 14.
