Thursday, April 16, 2020


In one way I am thankful
the turd-face who belongs
locked in a room infested
with COVID-19 invisible torturing

murderers chose my credit card
to feed its fucking greed, because
I was bereft of ideas for today’s
Corona poem until I discovered

the hemorrhoid-face had ripped my card off
for five hundred dollars, discovering
this after a text message from my bank
urged me to check my account,

which I did, and discovered the
shit-breathed remora had tried
three times to hit my card today
with the first two declined,

while enjoying the charmed third,
after which I managed to speak
with a live human voice in my bank’s
fraud department, and learned that

there was no way to stop the debit
but that the bank would make good the
theft and that I should destroy my recently
updated card and expect a new one

to arrive in about a week, plus some forms
to fill out for their records, which the
fraud specialist said would not necessarily
mean the thief would be identified

and prosecuted, whereupon I expressed
befuddled dismay while remaining
respectful of the fraud specialist’s
undoubtedly Herculean task in

assisting bank customers victimized
during these months of presumably
ubiquitous predation by dead-rat-rotten
offal-souled privy slurping pieces

of...oh, use your imagination, at least
my adventure in digitalic mugging gave me
these lilting insouciant stanzas to further
brighten your already sunny pandemic day.

                                                                                                                            m.d. paust

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