by Megan Mealor
The wrathful kid with the fierce fingers
and a penchant for torturing ants won’t
stop breaking eggs on the sidewalk,
won’t respond to the vigilant old lady
shouting from across the street in the
kooky green house with lace for blinds.
He splatters them like a delirious Picasso
from four or five cartons I’m sure his mother
will miss. I think his father works twelve
hours a day, six days a week, in some
nearly-extinct job better left to computers
who don’t have two mortgages out on
some disfigured dark eyesore with a
leaf-choked lawn and a tornado-prone
roof which blocks out the sunrise.
I think his mother cleans the
kitchen counter twenty times a day.
The front yard trampoline sags
like a heartless sonnet;
the basketball net unthreads in self-pity.
Splat! Now there are no more eggs
to scramble in silent screaming testaments,
and the kid heads home for another
sapless sandwich of a supper.
Megan Mealor is a native of Jacksonville, Florida. Her poems and short stories have been published in Elan, Digital Americana, 4 and 20 Poetry, The Rathalla Review, Obsessed With Pipework, Midnight Circus, Black Heart Magazine and Hello Horror. She is currently working toward a Master’s degree in English Education at the University of North Florida, while balancing new mommyhood and writing a chapbook.