Author: Kyle Edwards

CLEAT has unnoticed

CHUNK of grass, a soon to be

SNARE to the striker in

TURBO mode.

AMONG many mistakes was sliding down the

GULCH after the rain which would have

HALVEd my lifespan if I couldn’t

OUTGO my outraged mother.

PLUMP gourmand remarked

DRYLY that the soup perhaps had too much

BASIL, to which his wife (and cook)

TEASEd him that perhaps less soup would be good for him.

SWAMI never one for tradition or

DOGMA, more inclined to

SIEVE out the bits he’s not

BOUND to follow.

TURBO, as he called himself, would

STRAY into the cool kids’ arcade,

FRILLed leather jacket and aviators,

CLOWN in their eyes, hero in his.

OCTET plays the summer bandshell circuit with

CAMEO occasionally from Clyde McCallister, who’ll

STRUT in with his oboe, crowds practically throwing

MONEY at this magnetic sex symbol.

SHONE the waning light on

WRIST, mosquito bitten, stirring

CHILI over hard earned fire,

CANOE drying next to the tent.

WINCH pulls the remains of a night of

HAVOC out of the retaining pond, after we

AMUSE ourselves by doing donuts in the snowy Home

DEPOT parking lot to welcome the weekend.

GROUT subject to furious scrubbing in a

SPURT of bathroom cleaning with Magic Eraser,

TOWEL, and loud cursing. Not even

AGATE sculptures in art museum given such attention.

SUGAR, salt, flour, baking powder:

KNEED it along with a secret ingredient the

ELDER baker insists isn’t real, but doubts

AROSE when no one else could replicate it.