At the hotel, there was a convention of devils.
Their mouths bristled with impossible teeth.
The sidewalks were pocked by their
half-mooned hooves, and we were forever
bumping into pitchforks left listing against the walls.
One night in the bar, I played poker with a few.
The corners of the cards smoked.
The figures on them danced lewdly
and pulled down bikini tops to show acres of red skin.
I asked one devil how to avoid hell.
With unleaded breath, he whispered something urgent.
I wrote it down on a napkin.
The next morning my fingertips were blistered.
I couldn’t find the napkin anywhere.
The longer I live, the more I suspect
it wasn’t worth finding anyway
Trevor Pyle has spent most of his life in the Pacific Northwest and currently lives north of Seattle.