MPG of Wild Boar

Noah Siela

Some of the muffins here lack self-esteem, 
the poppyseed guilt-baked with narcotic false positives. 

Wolf, wolf! it yells to its scone neighbor 
who’s busy hiding Occam’s razor 

under reliable blueberry’s base, 
butter-dense in its scalloped-pressed wrapper. 

Always have razor-hiders for friends, 
the planet’s foghorn stuck on blow 

and the current state of electrical sleuthing 
far from adequate enough to dampen its decibels 

let alone tucker itself to death 
with a million attaboy back slaps. 

Oh God! Don’t even get me started 
with the amount of bad guys out there 

dematerializing the fail-safe blueprints 
by stained-glassing elementary science, 

the bad guys walking fast and backward 
everywhere so they have the advantage 

of not knowing what’s going to kill 
them to impede them from killing
while the rosary-twirling near-dead 
baby fiddle with the radio nob 

to banish the static 
to see when to emerge from the attic
to attack, their last act of valor. 
It’s a tough world, muffin, full of subtropical forests 

with overworked gorillas clubbing their children to death 
while an unclassified super mosquito
slurps up the clubber’s type-O, 
non-scholar, result-thick Ares rides his wild boar 

in the HOV lane and nothing we really want to do about it 
because it’s a naked guy with a spear 

on top of a wild boar and we’re always hungry 
and distraction-needy on our commute every morning 

after leaving the house angry and sad that we, 
again, dropped the toast memory-side down.