My best friend Christine has read three
books on Marxist theory, and owns more
books on religion than my father, a priest.

Jim Jones was also an avid reader of Marx,
though he created his own religion,
something Christine is far too lazy to do.

Her dog Ruby got out on the same day
Anton Yelchin died of blunt trauma after his
Jeep rolled back and pinned him against a
security fence.

We spent half an hour chasing her before
trapping Ruby within someone else’s
security fence. I walked back and got the
leash, something Christine was far too lazy
to do.

Our senior year of high school, one of the art
teachers was jailed after having sex with an
underage student in his classroom.
This was the same year Christine started
hormones because Obamacare made
them free.

After Trump was elected, Christine wished
we had elected Ruby instead, like Emperor
Caligula, who put his horse on Senate.

My other best friend, Ashley, had been
fucking her teacher too. Mr. Walker offered
extra credit for keeping my mouth shut, I
told him I didn’t want any of his Kool-Aid.

When I was little, my dad was a truck
driver, and he covered my eyes
when the transvestite, prostituting himself in
front of the CB radio shop, was beaten.

I worry about Christine every day. She lives
in Chicago in a violent neighborhood.

I dread the day I will have to run after her, to
find her trapped inside a security fence,
panting and baying, with death on the news