An angry man came into the kitchen where his wife was busying herself about supper and exploded.
My mother told me this story every day of her life, until one day she exploded.
But it is not a story, she always pointed out. It’s a prose poem.
One day I saw a man feeding a hot dog to his dog. The hot dog looked like a stick of dynamite.
Often simply the sight of a prose poem makes me sick.
I am unmarried and live alone in a small house.
In my spare time, I am cultivating a night garden.
by Tom Whalen