The time my neighbor Jeff Pettit came
outside when I was ten and – I can’t
remember why – shot staples at me from
his stapler, my esteem for him plummeted
with the impotent trajectory of the staples.
I already held him in declining regard for
recruiting me to experience the stepford
smiles of his mormon congregation.
His parents kept glancing over to see how
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem