The Cut

by Dot Wickliff

The crickets have stopped chirping;

it’s the middle of May’s darkest night.

A gravestone covered in shadows . . .

sits lonley under the moonlight.

                       —

Through the freshly cut grass

white-walled tires hunt and prowl,

they come to stop at the lonley stone . . .

with a crazed, primordial growl.

                       —

Its phantom engine revs—

Let’s drive, drive! it screams—

and six feet below the dirt . . .

eyes long-closed open and gleam.

                       —

His cold heart starts pumping,

this is the thrill he can’t resist,

the fiend’s desire quickens and swells,

like a bloated, necrotic cyst.

                       —

Quickly through the black dirt and worms

the fiend clambers up and then out,

for miles around the sounds echo:

Wild whoops, howls and shouts.

                       —

His yellow eyes widen, then settle

on his oldest, dearest friend,

the grey metal and paint still like new—

How many long years has it been?

                       —

Giddy lunatic behind the steering wheel,

the dark mirrors adjusted just right,

his skeletal claw finds the stick shift—

Be warned all who waken: We own the night!

                       —

He cackles through a demonic grin,

a rotten laugh boils in his rotten gut,

and as the tires start spinning . . .

The director yells “CUT!

                       —

Great work everybody,

let’s take ten and we’ll regroup.

Hey Hansen, Ramierez! What's this?

Put a fresh buff on that coupe!”