Cub Scouts of the Infinite

It's five o'clock on a Monday

at the end of March.

A girl with a streak of rainbow

in her hair

wants “The Darjeeling Limited.”

Doctor Trang squints

at the air to detect

soul parasites.

Trang has Paul McCartney's memoir

in his hand.

It is a generally beautiful day

and I don't think

you can find trouble

unless you hatch it yourself

in the street

with a tall oak staff

knotted into the portrait

of Boris Karloff

as Frankenstein's monster.

Our cub scout troop

couldn't sleep after “Frankenstein,”

so the leaders hypnotized us

with guitars

which they later

tossed onto the campfire.

The strings snapped

and curled into the shapes

of glowing eyes.