Ben Doyle
The Fritters
Were the fritters manufactured
minus chunks
they might be twice as sweet, though no one
would devour them. Now if they had meat squares.
If I ceased it seems I would not be haunted so
though would haunt some few it seems. This haunts
me now, like the commercial where a boy who steals
pills from his mother’s purse stumbles into a busy
intersection, and then the frame froze. I, too
have been hit by a car, though it was not moving.
It sat in the parking lot, inside the three lines,
it was a wagon. I was going long. It hit my thigh,
the injury was not a wound, ‘twas embroidery.
The boy dies, one assumes, he isn’t made of silver,
squealing in the ocean, crazy about asshole moon.