Fiend sneaks down the lane, hauling his lawn chair
past the marshy yard full of oompah-ing bullfrogs
and buzzing insects sawing away
at their own carapaces.
Fiend is on the prowl, sharkish smile not fooling
anyone (and neither do his humble plaid shirt and
Payless Shoes discount high-tops).
He's come around a time or two before,
putting the scare on the good citizens,
the Neighborhood Watch Committee
and children under 10.
There were rumors of near-rapes, hideous screams,
locks gouged clean out of doors, and
dark forms crouched under porch steps.
That's kid stuff for Fiend, he sniffs,
urging his shuffling steps
toward a pool of light where a lone street lamp
marks the end of the road, the ideal place
to set up your chair
if you happen to like watching epic disasters.
Any minute, it will come, the cataclysm
predicted on everyone's flat screen TV, the fear of fears
about to be made manifest one block away:
a falling satellite!