Getting strafed by an army of air force demons is no fun.
Herbie and Aunt Marge would have rather ridden impromptu
To eternity and back on blinding angel spittle that simply
Would not burn. Yes, there was firmament, but it got sucked
Entirely into a chimera pumped from Herbie’s internal organs.
Herbie casually ate radium from a paper plate. Aunt Marge
Sewed patches on his work pants, humming to Burl Ives.
The demons took on forms nobody was prepared to handle:
Manatees stuck in gooey lava, thunder’s ions blistering.
Herbie developed some ghastly blotches all over his skin.
Then he began to cough up blood, sticky bile and raw bones.
Aunt Marge was absolutely convinced this was just genocide.
Herbie, good trooper, stuck to his demons like glue on glue.
He never gave up wondering why his bike was red, not blue.
The air force demons vaporized in baptism of rapid digression.
Thomas Piekarski is a freelance writer and former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His theater and restaurant reviews have been published in various newspapers, with poetry and interviews appearing in numerous national journals, among them Kestrel, cream city review, Nimrod, The Portland Review, and New Plains Review. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems.