The Late Show

My nerves dance

like angels

on the head of a pin.

Your musical guests,

punk, thrash:

defiant heartbeats.

I can’t help but notice

those caramelized legs

and where they’re leading.

All night, all yours,

on your clamshell couch,

which converts, of course,

into a salt lick seabed.

No studio audience,

unless you count

the puckish moonlight,

the goaty devil on my shoulder,

and this bloodhound

that won’t heel.

This experience

is brought to you

with no commercial interruption

please God.

By Jeremiah Comer