I do not want to alarm you but your
toilet was clogged with bones and fur-
thermore I saw a skeletal bird
roaming the graveyard you call your
basement. Not a reason to worry but
I heard my name in frantic birdsong
when I got the thing to flush. A whirl-
wind! The bones now live in a black
bin by the bathroom door. Make your-
self a new home, build yourself
a prayer because my next job is in a church
toilet; the pastor says his con-
gregation’s constipated in today’s
plentiful sin society, no angel wings
for anyone who seeks God in the end-
less rolls of toilet paper anymore and
he wants to flush his hope down. Like
everyone else he’s looking for relief
and belief and furthermore you owe
me three hundred fifty dollars; him,
your soul.

(originally published in Terror House Magazine, Summer 2019)