Poem by David Spicer


Feeding Time

Rebuking me, my landlord says I’m
a misanthrope. You’re n-n-not prejudiced,
he stutters, you h-h-hate everybody.
Well, you’re nothing but a janitor
who gives me headaches with your
I say, so shut your cake
hole, or you’ll wish I’d feed your
sorry ass to Iodine.
a twelve-feet-long green narcissist, sneers,
wears a monocle, chomps watermelons
and ogles pole dancers on Netflix.
He lies on the porch, his eyes and wide
smile of teeth watching me pluck
dandelions for my sweetheart Feather,
a private detective. I worship her
almost as much as I adore Iodine:
she washes herself in a porcelain bowl
I stole from the Chinese embassy,
preening in front of the mirror in
a black slip while I leaf through The Baffler
and wait for birdhouse woodpeckers.
Today it’s drizzling, and Feather calls
the landlord a lecher as we stroll
under umbrellas before feeding
Iodine for the fourth time today.


David Spicer has poems in Midnite Lane Boutique, Reed Magazine, Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, unbroken, Raw, Yellow Mama, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of Everybody Has a Story and five chapbooks; his latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree (Flutter Press).

TJ Edson is the Art Director of Oddball Magazine.


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