Poetry: The Wolf of 6th Street by Uzi McAllister

The winners, the grinners
With money-coloured eyes,
Eat all the nuggets
And they order extra fries

The werewolf is comin…

-Paul Simon

She sat, detached and downtrodden, with the same glass of wine in her hand from yesterday.
There were attempted pleasantries, comments on the potpourri and candied yams.
We stared at the box on the wall, and pretended to care.
We never said what we thought was right. We never dared to have a thought at all. We interacted with pleasantry, and cordially wished the other a goodnight.
Separate and separated, we seethed.
I wondered where time goes.
I worried about bills.
I wandered outside, my one remaining vice.
I smoked and i seethed.
Chirps of cicadas never getting the winter memo.
Scratches from raccoons, the babies still teething.
“Do they all have rabies?”
If they aren’t rabid now, it’s only a matter of time.
Inside the covers, i had more seething to do.
Distract myself; figure out your coordinates and orient yourself northerly for a good night’s sleep.
A bug scurries across the floor.
A hooter or two coo nearby.
I can hear a squirrel in the attic.
If they aren’t rabid now, it’s only a matter of time…
I dreamed of orca whales and owls, and woke up to the imaginary smell of coffee.