You best believe the little shaver in green
gets shocked to shit when he pokes his skinny index finger
into an electrical outlet that was plastered into the wall
‘way back during the hours of the Truman vice presidency,
but the frazzled leprechaun jumps back, hardly the worse
for wear, and Lucifer decides this really isn’t the day
to tempt your bulbous ass into spreading
all over the gray front steps of St. Anne’s rectory.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he once grabbed a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins University while the getting was good. His work has previously appeared in such fine little mags as Poetry Pacific, Poetry London, PRISM International, Roanoke Review, Mastodon Dentist, and Zymbol.