Steven D. Schroeder
Real American Heroes
Duke soon segued from leading
the Joes to serving as a German
Shepherd chew-toy. Command lost,
Cobra Commander lay on a tundra
of rug as the Snow Cat paw-pawed
his fully poseable prone figure.
Lady Jaye sulked in a shoe, choked
for weeks on feet and that traitor
Flint making out with the Baroness,
beauty in glasses and sassy attitude,
on the Tactical Battle Platform.
Low Light, sick of the nickname
Lowlife, played baseball—rather,
he threw himself off a baseball bat
with plastic pings until he flew
above the shrubs and into a road
grader’s way. Scarlett redefined
flaming redhead, her helmet-hair
melting on a square of dirt outside
a ground-level window, her skin
blackened and two Bics nearby.
The first suspect might have been
Blowtorch, but he had died, spread
across a radius of grass by an M80.
As all hell broke loose around them,
Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes
kicked back with their ninja powers
of coolness, which came in beams
from their eyes and could explode
your head if you stared too hard.
|
Steven D. Schroeder: edits The Eleventh Muse,
the literary journal of the Poetry West organization, and works as a
Certified Professional Résumé Writer. His poetry has
recently appeared or is forthcoming in 32 Poems, Diner, Pebble Lake Review, Cranky, and elsewhere. Website: steveschroeder.info/
|
h
|