Steve Klepetar lives and writes in the Berkshires, in Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include Family Reunion (Big Table), A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).

This poem will not start a trade war with China

or raise interest rates across the board.

It will not turn into a monkey and jabber in the trees.

It will not kiss and tell or appear in district court.

This poem is just holding its breath, waiting

for Halloween. It loves chocolate and wears a mask.

It would take you by the hand, lead you back

behind a stand of oaks, whisper secrets in your ear.

This poem probably wouldn’t pass a polygraph test.

No matter. This poem is fair of face. It has far to go.

It won’t be stopping by woods on a snowy evening

or chatting up the girls out on the D train.

This poem is in training and needs its beauty sleep

because it plans to run the Boston Marathon.

But now it’s developed shin splints.

It’s been hanging around with the wrong crowd,

sitting under the bridge drinking cheap wine.

And while it would never throw a rock at your car,

this poem might mock your walk or repeat everything

you say until you send it to its room, its little eyes wet with tears.