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.