Chupacabra Ponders Retirement
by Clarence Wolfshohl



He wonders if he should try
suspenders. Most of his life,
of course, he went pants-less,
but the warmth of jersey pants
on his spindly legs is pleasant,
so he wears bright pink ones
now—with SEXY across his rump—
but his butt is so bony now
his pants sag under his paunch
precariously, so suspenders would help.

He’d enjoy coffee with his old
cronies, reminiscing about goat herds
they’ve decimated, griping
about the new environmental
deregulations, and commiserating
each other about the sad state
of current affairs. And don’t get
him started on those young buck
chupacabras who couldn’t catch
the scent of a billy if it were
turning on a spit beside a pot
of frijoles, and wouldn’t know
a Nigerian Dwarf from a Pygmy.

It’d be soothing to downsize,
he and the mrs. Travel, perhaps
revisit New York and take a ride
on the subway. He always liked
the way the passengers bunched up
in a near panic, their bodies
coruscating scented sparks of fear.






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