Where new writing finds its voice

Drive-Thru Hazards

Arlene Ang

The girl with the red cap is part
of the mayonnaise. She has a ball game

between her foot and a shotgun
in the paper bag. The sun

slips a smiley bumper sticker
in the pudding. Traffic jam.

A Batman costume sums up
the clouds. You scry

chewed-up pieces of hamburger,
spit again and again for luck.

Outside the future is on a decoy duck.
A child points at you

from the billboards in his mouth.
Next, an old man called ephebophobia.

He is all false teeth,
highly flammable. Proof

is all there. Now
a policeman with cold cough,

cough drops taps the glass.
He’s sick. You’re sick.

If not now, then when?