by Kara Bachman

he’s a flim-flam man in a polyester three-piece
with a wink of the highest caliber
he’s snake-oil and slicer-dicers
and scenes included as filler that never seem to end
he’s incorrigible
he scratches your chewed-up nails on chalkboard
as a bland entertainment
he takes your head in his manicured fingers
and smashes it expertly on brick
he’s a sedative
he enters your blood like a computer-guided missile
that surfs the tepid waters but never explodes

he dangles photos in your face
and maps
and letters
and hopeful calendars with false entries
and a lethargic to-do list from your empty junk drawer

he tears them up in slo-mo and smarmily feeds them to you
on an expensive bed of endive

and you eat