A Monster in My Culvert from Issue 62
The summer, the corrugated tube
of culver under my driveway
has propagated a monster,
a gelatinous cylinder
of murky uncertain mucus
encased in leather tough as
Connecticut Valley cigars
I’ve never seen the creature
Because I’m afraid to look
in the tube. But shallow rounded tracks
splay in every direction,
looping along the sandy roadside
toward expensive modern houses
built for executive tastes.
Embarrassed by this presence,
I’d like to exterminate it,
but if I blast it with buckshot,
flush out the mess with a hose
and wash it down the drainage ditch,
I’m afraid its spirit will linger
and drive the neighborhood mad.
I should lure it into a sack
and drive it elsewhere and pack it
into another culvert
the same diameter and length.
But the sight of it would sicken me,
its wormy insistence worse
Than the yawn of an open sewer.
Often I lie awake and hope
it has rotted in the culvert
but every night it wriggles
toward some woman’s bed to plant
a thought to flourish in daylight,
leaving a little round slime-trail
penciled directly to me.