The Poet in Bed |
by Carolyn Banks (486 Words) |
|
He reads my poem. “But you’re not married,” he says. Right. Not only is there a husband in the penultimate line, but a son, even earlier. “I guess it’s good,” he says, trying to mend things, erase his memory of the look that swept across my face.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to like it.” I rub my bare foot against his to tell him it really is okay, “I’m used to it, really.” “I’ve never met a poet before,” he says. “And I sure as hell never slept with one.” We both laugh, his laugh real, I think. “We’re a dying breed.” “Not just yet,” he says, flopping atop me. |
After ACHES“Head lice are easier to get rid of,” Sarah whines, and the group nods in unison. Sarah is the newest member of ACHES—Adult Children at HomE Still—a support group that meets every Friday night at the Wine On Bar, rain or shine, statutory holidays excepted. Counting Sarah, we now fill a table for twelve.
Meghan, our facilitator, gives us a few seconds to scratch our scalps. “We’re near the end of the venting segment of our meeting,” she says. “Does anyone else need to vent this evening?” No one speaks up. We’ve pretty much covered the insect analogies in past sessions—our kids as difficult to dislodge as wool moths, potato bugs, cockroaches. Meghan raps the table with shiny black nails. “Good. Let’s move on to coping strategies and self-care. Vivian, how are you doing?” Next to me, Vivian shudders as if woken by gunshot. |
by Jann Everard (2015 Words) 
sjm_sleeping_red1 by Michael Mandiberg | Flickr
|
Then the Monster, Lucky Me
Fressen & Gefressen Werden by Eden, Janine and Jim | Flickr
|
by Bryan Miller (1183 Words) The auditor was wrapping up his presentation, a tale of cooked books and mislaid funds—one for which I had no explanation—when the monster emerged from Lake Michigan.
Thank the lord for big-ass, hydra-headed favors. Specifically the auditor was saying something about turning me over to the Securities Exchange Commission when a woman in a pinstriped power suit interrupted with a hearty “Holy shit!” She must have been the second person in the room to see the thing hoist itself dripping onto Lakeshore Drive. I saw it first. We had a tremendous view from the gleaming window-walled fourteenth floor conference room. Even from here it was hard to distinguish between the monster’s prehensile legs and its multiple tentacular heads. |
|
Doggerel [ daw-ger-uhl ] adj. 1. (of verse) comic or burlesque, and usually loose or irregular in measure. 2. rude; crude; poor. |
|
|
one tiny elephant
|
|
|
