Three Poems by Rob Plath

the ogre’s feast 

my father 
often spent 
entire mornings 
preparing tripe 
soaking it 
boiling it 
trimming it 
then placing 
the strips of 
cow stomach 
in dark red gravy
& i feel like parts 
of my guts 
were cooked 
in that steel pot too 
strips of my insides 
ripped out 
w/ every curse 
w/ every swing 
w/ every fist
thru the wall 
w/ every door 
knocked off 
its hinges,
etc…
& drowned in 
a bloody sauce 
& if that wasn’t 
satisfying enough 
then that pair 
of terrible jaws 
tore them apart 
& washed them down 
w/ a jug of wine 
declaring life good

© Rob Plath

 
social studies & almost everything else  

in school 
i’d fill in 
scantron exam 
bubbles 
in the shape 
of a rollercoaster 
never even 
attempting 
to answer 
the questions 
that were 
based on 
those terribly 
inane days 
of 
bullshit 
divided 
by 
bells

© Rob Plath

 

precisely

the
old 

hobo
grins

because
he
has
no

teeth


© Rob Plath

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