Untitled Poem

Stephen Bubenheim, 131 TESSWake up. Hard bed and bones creak.Walk to the fridge; a dead lizard inside. How’d you manage that?Sugary powdered not-coffee.Ants in the water heater. Ants on my hand. At school they smile-scream and climb onwooden bulks barnacled with bolts and algae.They curse, they laugh—kick and hug—and when the day’s up, roll out.Ten-year-olds driving death machines. I think they’re learning, but it’s hard to tell;like some blurry thing ambling on-wards because we tell it to.Thrumming fan; still-hard bed.Rippled shapes flash across the mosquito net.

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This is Stephen's first solo article, but get a glimpse into his character and writing where he is featured in Never Thought I'd Be Into ___ Until I Joined the Peace Corps.