Denizens of Mischief

There are hundreds of

henchmen, minions, and goons

all out to get you.

In poorly lit rooms

in empty warehouses

they listen inattentively

to super-villains and evil wizards

explaining needlessly complex plans

to entrap you.

So suspect:

dollar bundles of asparagus,

cheap flights to Portland,

by-one-get one free

packs of fancy underwear,

every beautiful girl

fascinated by your art

and topics ranging from soul music

to medieval theology.

Behind every one of these

is a half-dozen denizens of mischief

with bottles of chloroform and pre-soaked rags

ready and waiting with anticipation

in the blink-of-an-eye

you’ll be tied-up with scratching rope

dangled over a vat of a boiling liquid,

acid, you presume,

while a surprisingly eloquent miscreant

regales you with the details of his plan

for the doom of the city, after he rids himself

of your meddlesome menace, of course.

So be careful:

you have more arch-enemies

than anyone as mind-numbingly mundane as yourself

could possibly warrant,

each one focused on the single task

of removing you from this world.

They all have at least

five plans to ensnare you:

they know what you like,

where you live,

and what you do;

you would have been wise

to invest in a secret identity.