Vern moved slowly

Like something half broken and made of wood

And he smelled of used sandpaper

But there was a whorl in him

A knot in the woodenness of Vern

Interpolated

More by insertion

Than by hernia

He was evil

Exactly

But evil like a snake

With basic drives

That fell comatose

In the cold

He looked like he was in pain

Like he’d been folded up in a drawer

With the peanut shells

And greasy handwritten receipts

Single serving boxes of Frosted Flakes

And the accumulation of sand

From before the internet

Vern is the evil Yoda of white trash

Talking like his face doesn’t work

Hunched and covered in cement dust

I’d like to kick his head off

Like in the movies

Clean off

Sailing away like a soccer ball

But today he brings in a check

So I sell him the dirt

Because a check is at least

Evidence