The Boondoggle man
walks.
Black, tar, sticky
streets.
Like flypaper to the
shoe.
Attracting worms,
maggots, roaches.
Kin to its heart;
Blood relatives.
The Boondoggle man;
Pale face, blue
eyelids
Grey – Mohawk –
hair.
A smile made out of
ashen twigs,
A heart fished from
the river Styx.
A laugh, short,
bitter and long.
The Boondoggle man
waits.
Until the still,
moonless night.
Where all is quiet;
Except your racing
heart.
Something follows –
And you know it.
Around every corner.
Pausing just long
enough -
For you to know it’s
still there.
The terror builds.
Like a screaming in
your mind.
Run, fall, curl
up in a ball.
The Boondoggle Man –
drinks.
K.J.K. – 06-21-10
