By Jeffrey Bishop
Powerless to move so don’t even try
says the pacing papershredder, removing any doubts
of his bark being worse than his bite
as your last drop of courage drips from your forehead
and soaks the cover of an undelivered PennyPower.
A near scrape: they were nearly scraping you
from the pavement;
she turned before you too soon; but don’t stop now, Ma’am
and you will,
barely, sideways, slowing, stopped.
Lucky you had your helmet on, kid.
Fear is the guy who taps on your
left shoulder while hiding behind your right.
And you know hes comin’ around
but if you know, then how come
he always catches you off guard?