For some, it's the greatest pleasure.
In childhood, they were the ones melting ants
with a magnifying glass, pulling the wings off flies
or giving Indian burns to younger siblings.
As adults they occupy corner offices
where they enjoy summoning underlings on a rainy Friday afternoon
to ask for lengthy reports that no one will read.
Of course their genitals are shrunken almost beyond visibility
and their skulls are full of poisonous spiders locked in death embraces.
Apart from that, you might not recognize them
except for their lidless, vacant eyes, always fixed
beyond you on the pain they hope to cause you.
If you see them on the street there is no law
against running them down and backing over them again and again,
though you may get a ticket for littering.
Kurt Luchs has poems published or forthcoming in Into the Void, Right Hand Pointing, and The Sun Magazine. He placed second for the 2019 Fischer Poetry Prize, and won the 2019 Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest. He has written humor for the New Yorker, the Onion and McSweeney's Internet Tendency, as well as writing comedy for television and radio. His books include a humor collection, It's Funny Until Someone Loses an Eye (Then It's Really Funny) (2017 Sagging Meniscus Press), and a poetry chapbook, One of These Things Is Not Like the Other (2019 Finishing Line Press). More of his work, both poetry and humor, is at kurtluchs.com.