a winged unicorn should never stop believing
in life on mars just because it’s tied up to a
parking meter and it’s out of coins and here
comes the by-law enforcement officer.
a poem should be a window to reality:
break the window, win a prize, play
again, with fingers sticky from too
much cotton candy. some contestants
may find the truth dripping down the
veins of maple trees planted by your
pioneering ancestors. they collected
the sap, thought it cured hangovers,
they built a barn in a single day—
we can barely put our grievances in
alphabetical order without running
after the main west 5c express bus.
history was a drunken clown, the
moon was a half-eaten ice cream
sandwich. the alien mothership
was out of range: our frantic cry
for help never made it past the
ceiling. and the nestlé company
killed off the chipwich because
they didn’t want the competition.
Darrell Epp’s poetry has been published in over 100 magazines on 6 continents. His third collection, Sinners Dance, will be published in 2018.