The Wax Conspiracy

Everybody's waiting for Superman to lift them

Two become three and the blasting caps capture the knees. A wiry frame beats the behemoth of lard. Limping is easier with two bodies less on legs. Hanging upside even easier.

Calm is nowhere in the back pocket, shredded as it is dangling from the clutches of an over hanging branch. A gnarling wolf takes a picture in case it won't remember the sheer of smell flooding the air. What leaves the end for a run is what leaves the start undone.

Separated from the rest of the pack, both are eyeing each other with a most knowing look.

Hours pass and the legless forgets that a crook in the tree is the closest thing to an open air closet. And with nightfall comes the drowsiness of sleep.

Shortly after, there's a thud.

And that's the end of another member no one will remember.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 14 June 2006

The Wax Conspiracy

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