LIGHT
Fluorescent light
despot of classrooms and hospitals
greenish penciler
of eyebags
and inner hells.
Blacklight
conjurer of scorpions
in midnight woodpiles
voyeur of semen
and old blood on motel sheets.
Sunlight
at dawn like a fox
with ice on its muzzle
at noon when shadows disappear
and evening shoulders
a moth-eaten shawl.
Strobe light
a teenager’s dope dream
amateur filmmaker’s best friend
an epileptic fit
in a strip club.
Camp fire light
like first love
or last hope
plum in the cheeks
the popping of the bones of an old ballerina
her loins still hot.
Half light
which has no meaning
or half a meaning.
Car headlights
somnambulant opossum
and a middle-aged man
stiffening for collision.
Police lights
catching up to you
like a venereal disease.
Phosphorescent light
off the bay of adolescence
everyone asleep except the crabs
in the wire traps
gnawing raw chicken legs.
Candle light
by which the ancients wrote their halting
masterpieces
knowing they had but little time.
Cellphone light
wife awake in bed
husband snoring
dreaming of a nameless girl.
Floodlight
nowhere to run
you shouldn’t have come here.
PUPPY SHIT
The only thing that keeps Suegra from going completely nuts
is her grandson Pedrito.
Pedrito is her rock.
He’s the only reason she has for living.
Pedrito turned eight last month.
He said to Suegra,
I can’t have a birthday party this year
can I, Nana? It’s ok.
Isabella brought a puppy over to the house
as the only birthday gift for Pedrito.
She left the puppy with a bag of food
just as Pedrito’s mother had left him with Suegra
when he was three
but the food soon was eaten up
and the puppy shit on the floor
and Pedrito didn’t seem too interested.
He only wants to play video games.
They didn’t even name it.
Suegra gave the puppy to a stranger
who stopped to tie his shoe in front of the house.
The stranger took the puppy
thinking it was his lucky day.
Now there’s one less mouth to feed for Suegra
and the floor’s a little cleaner.
Do not give somebody an animal as a gift
unless it’s an animal you can eat
and already properly butchered,
I don’t care if you think
your heart is in the right place.
Mather Schneider lives in Tucson, Arizona and works as an exterminator. His second novel, “Corn Chips” should be out soon from Anxiety Press.