Thursday, August 11, 2022

Poetry Rising

Life is full of such ironies...Here's one of mine.


We are reading "The Groundhog,"
when Leroy calls from the
back of the room:
"Them make good eatin,'"
killing my joke about road kill.
I had hit one an hour ago
on West Lake Road, and the mess
is still on my mind and shoes.
Connie's face tells me so as does
the sour smell of dead flesh.
"Ever get one from the road?"
she dares to ask. He turns to me.
"Sure have, if it's fresh," he grins.
"Only way to describe its taste
is to eat it fresh," he says, sending
a shutter up the rows.
"Meat's not as dark as racoon," he adds
for no one's sake. As for me,
class is over and I say so
and begin taking off my shoes,
when he turns at the door,
"Lotsa fat, you know, but never greasy."
I turn my choke into a nod, as he
says again, "Them make good eatin.'"

(Best line of poetry this year.)


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The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau