Click. Chuff. Scrape. Tap. The left. Right. Left. Tick tick tapping canines while deep grinding molars together. Tsh, through lips, slips, ugh drum.
Ugh drum. And a hum.
A hike is coming on strong right along.
Write alone. Up in the monster’s cove
when he should behave
and sleep like how tired he is.
Huh huh. And an ugh.
Snore like lions roar. Trick trick trick.
Dud thud drops a mouse on the shelf.
Being disgusting is its own form of stealth.
And no one can see where they don’t look.
Where a world of rodents gets left off the hook.
No one here fishes the shelters.
They’re there though.
Boo. Says the wind. Booo.
Says the bolted in ceiling.
Roof anchored down wears wind like a crown.
While foreign shores try to snatch it away.
This noise-chorus-full dark place we stay.
On top of a mountain.
Mount. Don’t know the name.
Overlooking Burke’s Garden.
Where God got booked in.
Gave over its thumbprint.
Just the same.
Mount. Sour Apples.
Or Sour Apple Pond.