Ryan Mecum - Werewolf HAIKU

digestive systems.

Why wouldn’t the wolf

, once the girl shares her schedule,

shrug and then eat her?

If you’re in my woods

wandering to grandma’s house,

you won’t make it there.

Me, the big bad wolf.

You, little red riding hood.

This will get messy.

Those three little pigs

would have been eaten too fast

for a fairy tale.

That ten-page story

should be a five-word sentence:

“A wolf eats three pigs.”

If you seek safety

in a house of branch or hay,

you’ve lived long enough.

You won’t let me in?

Well, little pig, little pig,

no more playing nice.

Hide in a brick house?

I would huff and puff at it,

then break a window.

It’s hard to eat pigs

when their chinny chin chin hair

gets stuck between teeth.

Once the pigs are gone

and the bones lose their flavor…

time for their owner.

I love eating pigs.

Farmers who love eating pigs -

I love eating more.

I think about girls

a lot more than I used to.

Hot girls eating meat.

Girls in red raincoats:

Be sure to keep those hoods down.

Quit leading me on.

When I picture girls

with dead chipmunks in their teeth,

my heart could explode.

You know that fifth toe

that you wonder if you need?

Turns out that you don’t.

If you lose a toe,

make sure it’s the little one.

Big ones are useful.

People can still run

if I just eat little toes.

Big toes, though… they’re mine.

Five o’clock shadow,

even if Is have at noon,

now shows up by two.

I need more razors

and I need new furniture,

dear haiku journal.

Dear haiku journal:

Love makes us do crazy things,

which explains this limp.

Rose won’t answer calls,

open the door when I pound,

or keep the dead cats.

Against good judgment,

I visited Rose last night.

It did not go well.

Around 3am,

as if to say, “Come on in,”

her house lights were off.

Rose was sound asleep,

which was sweet for me to watch

through her back window.

I don’t use doorknobs.

Who knows if her door was locked?

It opened for me.

She didn’t answer

when I smashed apart her house,

yelling out her name.

I couldn’t find her.

Rose’s hospitality

needs a little work.

She was being rude,

as if she didn’t recall

I bought her salad.

I picked up her scent,

which led me to her closet

and this bullet wound.

Two bullets pass me -

and considering my size,

I am hard to miss.

Bullet number three

hit the wall like the others…

but went through me first.

Rose aimed at my chest,

both her hands holding a gun

that smoked as I fell.

I slid to the floor

as Rose lowered the weapon

that punched through my chest.

Nothing can hurt me

when I’m in my werewolf form.

Excluding bullets.

Rose jumped over me

as if I didn’t exist

as I moaned her name.

If you shoot a guest

and make a gaping chest wound,

offer an ice pack.

If silver bullets

can instantly kill werewolves,

those must have been lead.

Rose called 911,

which pushed me over the edge

and I let her know.

I slowly stood up,

and as I stared in her eyes,

I flexed and I howled.

An operator

spoke loudly through Rose’s phone:

“Having dog trouble?”

I clawed for the phone,

which is why she will have scars

for life on her face.

Rose shot me again,

which is why I have a limp

and only one knee.

I fell to the floor

as Rose screamed about werewolves

and ran out the door.

The smell of her blood

helped me to regain my strength.

But not my kneecap.

I hobbled back up

and limped out through the front door,

chasing after her.

Rose loved to play games,

but I’m the dog on her leash

who will not play dead.

Rose had a good lead

but I was still catching up -

until the cops came.

The police siren

was a song I had to join

and I howled again.

Rose pointed at me

and the police pulled their guns

as I ran away.

I woke up outside,

nude but normal, in a bush

in my own backyard.

My kneecap is gone.

In its place: a crusty scab

peppered with wolf hair.

The hole through my chest

has closed up and is healing,

but it hurts to cough.

If the bullet hit

any of my main organs,

I guess they heal, too.

I’m taking to bed

my broken chest, knee and heart,

dear haiku journal.

Dear haiku journal,

I now keep in my pocket

milk bone treats for me.

I knew something changed

when my recurring daydreams

included dog bones.

When dogs near my yard,

screaming, “My territory!”

is now a habit.

I now fight the urge

to shove my nose in crotches.

Socially awkward.

Dry dog food is gross,

but that fancy small can stuff

makes my mouth water.

Replacing tuna

with a tin of canned dog food

is great in salads.

When I walk past sticks,

I now find myself thinking,

“Sure love to chase that!”

My new stress relief

is throwing sticks in my yard

and then getting them.

When I hear dogs bark,

it’s odd that I comprehend

and sometimes agree.

Now I understand,

like everlasting pretzels,

why dogs chew on bones.

I need a breath mint.

A smell worse than garlic breath:

my pancreas breath.

Pet stores drive me mad

with all their open cages,

like a salad bar.