poems by Todd Matson

God in Dog Years

the dog died

at the bottom of

the stairs at 91 in

dog years when the

boy was 11 in people

years after boy and dog

enjoyed countless days of

fun in the sun together, after

dog taught boy the meaning of

friendship, loyalty, sacrifice, love,

after reincarnating herself in the

puppies of a half dozen litters,

after boy realized that DOG

spelled backward is GOD,

she died, and that very

night, the boy saw

her constellation

in the stars


Unholy Trinity


“I have to get out of here!” Id said to Ego.  “There

is just so much to see, hear, smell, taste, touch!”


“Not so fast,” Ego said to Id.  “It’s not that simple, Id.

It’s not that you’re wrong.  It’s that everything has


consequences.”  “I’m gone!” Id said to Ego.  “You’re

mine!” Superego said to Id.  “Already have your foreskin!


Coming for what you have left!”  “Slow down,” Ego

said to Superego.  “Leave Id to me.  I’ll take care of Id.


Id is naive.  Id is impulsive.  Id is a child.  Id wants, Id

needs, Id demands.  Id lives in darkness.  Id is not bad.


Id merely needs to be tamed by the light.  Id simply does

not know what is best for Id,” Ego said to Superego.


“Very well then,” Superego said to Ego.  “Do it your

way, but if Id runs wild, Id is mine!”  “You can come


out now,” Ego said to Id.  “Listen Id, I like you.  You

can be really fun.  Don’t know what I’d do without you,


Id, but whatever you do, please don’t do it, Id, without

consulting me first.  Superego has it in for you, Id.


Superego has a scalpel with your name on it, Id.  I know

it sounds crazy, Id, as old school as Superego may be,


believe it or not, I’d swear Superego loves you.

Loves you, Id!  Just doesn’t know how to show it.”




Ghostly Feast


As often as leap year babies are born

the ghostly feast is prepared by phantom

gourmet chefs of the billionaire class –

Americanized oligarchs promising “trickle down”

to everyone lower on the food chain,

famished and craving the morsels and crumbs

prophesied to fall from the banquet table

to all salivating for the lowest hanging fruit,

utterly ravenous to devour the red meat,

ever forgetting the Russian proverb: Free

cheese can be found only in a mousetrap.

When will we learn that lunch is never free?

For we are but prey for wealthy cannibals

preparing spectral feasts as mere bait for the

true feast of which we are the main course.




The Tale-Tell Toilet

The cartoon

was the brainchild.

It was always, only the

cartoon that inspired the

motive.  Is that not enough of

an alibi for an innocent four-year-old?

The perfume bottle was a spitting image

of the flasks the mad scientist used to brew

the bubbling concoction.  It was never about the

perfume.  It was about the flask.  The four-year-old boy

simply needed the flask to self-actualize as the mad scientist,

to stealthily gather and contain all the mysterious liquids and powers

from the bathroom and kitchen to brew the foaming concoction that would

change the fate of the world.  It was never about the perfume.  The perfume was

flushed by the little boy. The perfume was no more. That was before the interrogations

began, with the usual suspects – his older sisters who insisted they did not know the

whereabouts of mom’s perfume.  Of course, mom was quite the sleuth, a real

sleuthhound, a veritable bloodhound of a mom.  Have you ever been

brought in for questioning by a sleuthmom?  She turned her eye,

her nose, to little four-year-old me.  She brought me into the

bathroom for questioning.  “What have you done with my

perfume?”  I only remember my heart racing, pounding,

sweat pouring like rank perfume from my clammy

flesh.  “Nothing,” I choked out.  That is when

she pointed, as if in slow motion, to the

toilet: “How can you be so innocent

when that toilet has never

smelled so good?”

poems by Todd Matson

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Scroll to top