I’ve got frogs’ legs pumping their way
out of my throat, and feel like truck-bait,
a sitting duck on the road, ready to be hit.
I’m neighing and whinnying because I can’t
seem to get past being a sinker,
hanging on the end of your transparent
fly-line, and now it’s called off, the curled cord
around my neck is last of my hang-ups.
I’ve got a fever and the only prescription
is for you to stay the fuck away from me.