[The seventeenth installment of the month-long poetry sequence that began on October 1st.]
"All Out"
David Mitchell
Ninja-slick, I sneak up to Zimmerman's curbside mailbox
And deliver the brown bag full of my bulldog Rufus's turds.
For good measure I lift the box's red plastic flag,
Pointing it straight up in the air like a middle finger.
Then I reach into my backpack, for the Charmin I've come armed with,
And let the rolls fly, silently t-p'ing the big oak tree in the front yard.
From there I sidle over to the Sonata parked in the driveway,
Empty out several cans of Gillette, as if the windshield needed a shave.
Finally, I get out the carton of grade-A's I'd been planning to use
Ever since that kraut asshole gave me a D on my essay in German class.
I relish this vengeance, but even as I take jumbo egg in hand
I wish I could resort to something more than these Mischief Night cliches.
That's when I catch the first notes of the ruckus heading this way.
Frozen by indecision, I end up hunkering behind the Sonata's bumper,
Where I listen to, then watch, the procession of the monster-prodding mob.
Quite the motley crew--and there's Zimmerman right in the middle of it.
Suddenly it hits me: nobody's home, nobody's around.
The hell with egging the front stoop; I can shoot for the moon!
So once the crowd passes on, I step back onto the lawn,
Squat down and dig up the biggest rocks I can find.
Then turning and eyeing that tantalizing picture window,
I wave my arm and start orchestrating a gloriously shrill symphony.
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