Possum King
— For Chris
My nephew is a furry.
He is the possum king.
He reigns.
He floods my phone with photos
of his possum costume and terrifying
toothy snout, which cost him a year’s salary.
He and his furry friends pour themselves
into a rented Tesla and gobble gummies
up the Interstate to Denver’s thin air.
If I was a furry at a rave (perhaps a stag
in sensible shoes) under epileptic lights,
assaulted by techno-dubstep-rap-hiphop,
and high as a possum king on whatever
the kids are high on these days, and if
I saw my nephew coming toward me —
Jesus! Fight or flight, flight or fight,
but I’ve seen his bedroom and know
the possum king is feral and armed to the teeth
(and, as he reminds me, any possum
who chooses to play dead in Trump’s America
is a pussy at heart. Clearly, I am a pussy at heart.)
But it’s okay if I’m late to the party, okay
if I don’t care about anime and couldn’t give
two shits about the Marvel Comics Universe.
I never saw Grace Kelly until my dark middle age,
when I watched Rear Window and finally got
what all the fuss was about.
.
Stink Eye Magazine 