Fat Joe and the Sunday Morning Moon

Walking his dog to a secret stash
of fertilized crabgrass behind his neighbor's
house, Joe paused to watch the pale moon.
Neighbor's a sorry sucker, been missing
for a week now. His little wife's at church as
a steamer mounds on the sweaty, unkempt blades.

Fat Joe's got a feeling she'll have
company over later, help her
buck up over her "kidnapped"
loss. Damn dog pissing
on all her tiny statues out by the
covered in-ground pool. Dogs
don't respect anything like they
used to. Hump the hair off your leg like

a strip of slimy sandpaper--like Misty's
g-string grind against his neighbor's
pleated pants. Fat Joe's the only one in town
who knows where he is, though the man's face
has been in every paper and on every newscast
in the state the past week. That Misty's a wild one;
said he put the squirt in her skirt and she caught
the ball, the unlucky sonuvabitch.

Mr. Huskey has been writing fiction and poetry since his youth, and finds
just enough comfort in these arts to offset the amount of gathering dust on
his B.A. in English from Longwood University. He is currently writing a
collection of interconnected short stories. His work has appeared in The
Dos Passos Review, OpiumMagazine.com, and JMWW.

2005 Underground Voices