By Woody Woodger

When they pull out his tubing
they tell us to wait
outside. Rather we not see
what he looks like as a jalopy
gutted—axle tweezed out
through the grill. Behind

the curtain I assume
his plastic pipes look like oiled
snakes, extracted from an offshore
well. But I prefer to imagine
them as dandelion roots, preserved
still in fresh dirt.

***

Woody Woodger is a New England poet who has been published in Soundings East, Postcard Poems and Prose, and Golden Walkman Magazine and was as a finalist in the 2016 Paper Nautilus Debut Chapbook Contest. His experimental fiction can be found online on the blog Dear Hope.