Tom Trainor - COCOON - Page 1 of 4
Tom Trainor
Rumors are rife / That
Hugo Hyde
Took his frail mother's
That her death was no
Accident / No / That
He smothered his own mother
With her favorite feather
Sole heir to her estate
Nor was that the worst of the
He keeps weapons of mass destruction
Is a cult unto himself / Abnormal
For Hugo is under suspicion by the
Clearhaven neighborhood association
A man who should be tracked
His comings / His goings
How he lived with his mother / Just the
Two / In that tall brooding
Encircled with a balustrade porch
Set back / Way back
In the woods /
And high up a turret / A light
Still flickers day and night / The room
Where Hugo's frail mother
Drew her last gasp
The floor down below dimly lit / As
Hugo Hyde sits / Surrounded by stacks of
The New York Times
Stacks piled high from floor to the
Ceiling / Room upon room
Narrow useless aisles Hugo can barely
Squeeze by
Delivered daily and Sundays but left
Unread / Except
For an occasional crossword puzzle
Near genius he's been described
Though strange if true / More likely
He sits and he sits / Long nights
Never answers the phone
Mail gets slid through a slot in
The door
Pizzas too
Boxes of KC fried chicken / Along with
Icy cold cola by the case
Man's diet's restricted to
Four / Five hundred pounds of it
Since his poor mother's demise
He has grown thrice in size
Can't fit up the stairs
Can't fit through the door / Stuck
There on the first floor
The neighbors / They wonder
What is it he's doing / Braced in an
Oversized leather lounger / Laptop
Set precariously on the lowest roll of
Distended intestine / Face
Bathed in a fiendish green glow
Hugo stares at the screen / Eyes
Fingers fiddle the keyboard / Man's
How is it the neighborhood
Knows so much about
Hugo Hyde
Their kids / They roam
On nightly security patrol
Along the balustrade porch
Into windows and watch
One with nappy hair
Another a slanty-eyed glare
A third red and fair
short stories
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