DC Playwrights

“did you just fart?” said the squirrel.
“no,” i said.
“well it wasn’t me,” he protested.
“there are only two of us in the car,”
i explained.
“it wasn’t me –
so it had to be you.”

i don’t know if it’s their diet
or their metabolism,
but you definitely don’t want to be in a car
with the windows rolled up
when a squirrel rips a left cheek sneak.

the stench is nothing like
the bouquet of last year’s beaujolais nouveau.
perhaps it’s more akin to a wheel of camembert
that's been left in the trunk for three or four days.

“now that’s enough, squirrel,” i said.
“i’m telling you it wasn’t me,”
the squirrel said unconvincingly.

there are moments
when i am overcome by self doubt,
when i am unsure of what i believe
if the sun will come out tomorrow,
if light is a wave or a particle.…
this was not one of them.