Puffed with delusion, he curses the cop
who pulls him over—a peon
who makes less than a quarter his salary.
And, lately, he harbors strangely fascist ideas.
anything he has not experienced.
When the madwoman hears researchers found a link
between cell phones and brain cancer,
she tweaks him, asks if he worries.
Of course not, he replies, I line my hat with tinfoil!
He’s flippant now, but she wonders
how long before he, too, crosses the line.
Ann Howells has been writing poetry for some twenty years. Her work appeared recently in Agave, Apieron Review, Little Patuxent Review and other small press and university journals. She serves on the board of Dallas Poets Community (501-c-3) and edits the journal Illya’s Honey, recently taking it from print to digital.