I don’t suffer nuns. I don’t say “death,”
and I don’t say “no.” Consequentially,
I loved every get-wet raccoon
in my childhood tree. “Get toasty”
one says undoing his
Ferragamo tie like a pervert.
Every raccoon is a pervert when viewed
in the context of their thumbs. I knew
this even as a Queens kid, listening
to them argue over the telephone
bill, leaving the T.V.
some twilight instinct twitched in a
medieval precinct of their hot brains. They’d
really go at it then, and care not who
shuddered from the caterwaul.
Max Ridge is a writer from New York. His poetry has recently appeared in Dovecote Magazine.