He’s sick to death
of reading about people
who spend their time
reading about werewolves
and zombies. He spends
at least an hour every day
in the bookstore café,
writing about whatever else
comes into his mind.
But—no matter how hard he tries—
his fans come in to stand behind him
prod him to wake the sleeping dead,
to outfit the living normal beings
with glowing eyes and fangs.
“There must be something more,” he thinks,
knowing full well that there isn’t.
He turns to confront them, but
it’s clear that resistance is futile.
They unzip his skull, feast on his brain.
Imaginary Gardens / Real Toads