Dark Rider collects the newspaper
blue mountain bike,
its white basket tied on with twine
he swoops across the campsite to his prey:
Vader this morning,
nor Floppy the Seal
nor a nine-year-old boy with a bad dream in the night,
through the walls of the mobile home
and talks relentless nonsense
hoping to throw us off the scent
plans for intergalactic supremacy employing
space fighters made from Lego bricks
(powered mainly by carbon).
fifty franc note from the purse
he pays the scowling Frenchwoman
for two baguettes and yesterday’s Independent—
is mercifully unaware of the existence
of the civilization of the Joedasmians
of which he is now the ruthless and absolute ruler.
For Joel Rust, 1999.