Inversion of the Prodigal Son

Dobermen snarl in innerear, snatch up fleeingsoundbites sounding some sortof reprieve,it’s okay,you’re okay, butit persists like downed power linessizzling in a bed of blackening rain pools,don’t touch,never touchme,back of a grocery shelfsitting in silence, no,aisle twelve has what you’re looking for—————————————————I didn’t put that there, did you see him?Sometimes he hangs out in the strip jointat North and Bloomingdale, watcheswomen grind the pole into nothing,silver dust glistening in neon hues,he said he was comingbut I didn’t believe him,always here, neverleft, he’s just outside the peripherycalling signals for a game I didn’t sign up for,sign post says three milesbut I’m less inclined to believe it,don’t know if I’ll make it with that racket,same dogs waiting in the wings,turn it off,turn it off, turndown the last street that you see,just here, righthere, I told him I didn’t want tobut he insisted, can’t tellif it’s my hand or his guiding scalpelover surgical incision, spillsfire ants down the sides of the sink,I can hear them marching in by twos, seethem scuttle while he smirks in tune,did you see that, that little wink?Maybe I missed a dose, not sureabout whether I blew through that stop sign,not sure if it was him or me that flattenedthe boy on the bike, leg twitchingfrom splinter-bone sinew splayedout in three dimensions,not sure,not sure,take a left here,that’s right,don’t let them know which wayyou’ll go when they’ve been following youfor the last ten blocks, try and losethem around this corner, no,I don’t want to do thatbut he’s insisting, insistent,throw the car in reverse and smashthe shit out of papier-mâché plywood,guess the whole thing’s a rusewhen I’m on the run,guess the whole thing’s a jokewhen he’s riding shotgun,finger on the trigger,do you see him?

Can you see him?

Would you pull it yet?