Susan Wheeler Poems

So I'll speak ill of the dead. A was crooked,
planting the small left finger of the raccoon in the upholstery
before he sold the car. B made certain to point out Celia's
bewildered look before her pink slip came in the flimsy institution.
...

Thanks, Ray, this is just what the doctor ordered.

No, you never see me have one with olives—your father likes
olives but I can't stand them.
...

Oh, dangling long sleeves in the Mercurochrome.
Parking her punch on her knees.

I'm not a joiner.
...