Abra Macabre

When what I wrote is hard to read, the crowd goes, Whoa, not touching that. Perhaps someone should intercede to edit out the ghoulish splat. It’s not clear why my mind goes there; the childhood fever might be it. My mother often voiced despair, but I prefer macabre wit. Beneath calm seas, menacing kelp ensnares the otter fleeing Jaws. My wife’s convinced I should seek help to find the underlying cause. Though I in earnest sometimes try, the animals just seem to die.