Your low frequency growl inspires feelings of dread. You want
to seize the world by its neck, tear it in half with your
tombstone teeth. When you storm down the street, swigging
from a bottle of XXX and punching telephone poles to
splinters, fleeing hooligans dive down manholes, pull the lids
in after. Shivering houses roll up their front walks and slam
their own doors. But from her high window Olive leans out to
watch you pass. We know her weakness for brutes—has she
learned nothing? Don’t do it, Olive! But she does. Wotta man,
she sighs, throwing down a coy rose.