It's five o'clock on a Monday
at the end of March.
A girl with a streak of rainbow
in her hair
wants “The Darjeeling Limited.”
Doctor Trang squints
at the air to detect
soul parasites.
Trang has Paul McCartney's memoir
in his hand.
It is a generally beautiful day
and I don't think
you can find trouble
unless you hatch it yourself
in the street
with a tall oak staff
knotted into the portrait
of Boris Karloff
as Frankenstein's monster.
Our cub scout troop
couldn't sleep after “Frankenstein,”
so the leaders hypnotized us
with guitars
which they later
tossed onto the campfire.
The strings snapped
and curled into the shapes
of glowing eyes.