Urban Legends

At the other end of a landline,
I hear your voice ring from the attic.

You tell me that love is an urban
legend, passed through
the generations, from one friend
of a friend to another, all swearing
what they have to say is true.

Love hides in the backseat of your car,
just to get a glimpse of you,
ducking out of sight when the
high beams of light hit its face,
fearing what will happen when it’s
finally illuminated.

Love chants your name three times
in the rearview mirror, hoping your
face will appear in the reflection like
some ghastly vision.

Love stands at the side of the road,
thumb extended for a ride home,
vanishing into mist before you
can return what they left behind.

Love sits beneath your car
with a knife, hoping to draw you
out by the sound of its rattling.

Love follows you along the train tracks in
a bunny suit, under bridges, under tunnels,
brandishing a sharpened ax.

Love is the roar of a ghostly steam
engine, a train that never comes.
Love is the light of an alien spacecraft,
abducting you from the driver’s seat
to a faraway planet where alligators
live in the sewers and feed on poisoned
candy.

Love isn’t here to harvest your
organs, it just wants to talk.
When you’re placed back on Earth,
you’re left to decipher messages
in the corn. A green ribbon is wound
tightly around your neck, the only
thing keeping your head from
falling off.

Love is a rusty hook, hanging from a car door,
begging to be let in. But all you hear
is the scraping.