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pome written on the back of a tiny-ass paycheck

by Eric Hinkle

groundhogs, even, are afraid of their own shadows.
doubt pouts in the corner, sniffling between icy,
not nicey heaves of wrath. pity the sorrow:
it's even less wanted than you, even you,
you hunchbacked, brown-nosed manivore
with your loud-quiet eyes having obscene elevator sex
in my peripherals. and then i shut down.
i shut off my poor mother's tv, tuned to horridity
as per always: Family Freud or some such nonesuch.
i swivel in this nice blue chair: it's nice to
have something nice this year: a year of hot ice cream
and cold rigatoni.
no mo.
my cruel shoes played a cool joke the other
day: marathoned right on out. har har, sucka.

and then it's like...


what's the use


groundhogs are better than sheet hogs, at least.
so, ok, yep, you're hot n all, but it's just freezing
in here: gimme shelter!
unrequited prayers.
Our Father, who Ain't in Heaven no mo—who flew
away to Saturn or some Sicilian island or something—
i am still expecting your singing telegram.

you promised, jesus baby.

i'll tell the sheet hog you're a
i pinky-promise i will.

you will will me a new life.

(or at least a bag of apples that
don't turn to mushles. punk.)


Posted on 10/16/2011
Copyright © 2021 Eric Hinkle

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