Woody in the New Yorker

17 Jul

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Woody in the New Yorker

 

the man was torpid, bowlegged
with a port wine stain, porcine-shaped
across the left side of his face
my right testicle seemed like it’s been sagging
so I was feeling particularly frustrated
on that particular Sunday
that man was sitting by a music shop
close to Sheridan
where they sold broken ukuleles
reading something by Dickens
heavy, Bleak House I believe it was
my right jean leg felt tight
and I stumbled slightly
he noticed and he coughed
I caught a chuckle in that cough
and the way he sat there
like the wrong flag in the wrong ground
it sagged my testicle even further to the pavement
I worried that it might scrape along the concrete
so I killed him
the man, I mean
and with the testicle, now, feeling better
I strode off like I produced the play
off to my favorite diner
right there on Sixth
to order some chicken fingers, onion rings
maybe call my wife
cause she gets jealous
just like a cactus

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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