About
Front Porch Review is a quarterly online literary magazine. It is the creation of Glen Phillips of Park Ridge, IL, who toiled in the vineyards of educational and IT publishing as editor, writer, product designer, subject matter expert, business manager, and other menial roles not worth mentioning. After forty years of such effort, he decided that the best he could do for the common good was to build an electronic front porch displaying the significant artistic work of our older generation, men and women coming late to the creativity game but still with something of value to express.
A front porch ─ typically a formal, mannered appendage can also be concrete steps, wooden planks, iron railings, cardboard boxes, even a wool rug at the entrance of a Bedouin's tent. Whatever its form, a front porch is where we, young and old, congregate; where we assemble, gather, mingle, congeal, where we get together. And once there we speculate, pontificate, prevaricate, and expostulate; occasionally we speak words of universal truth.
A front porch is not a kitchen table. A kitchen table is for family matters, a front porch is for societal issues, those concerns which transcend time and space, about which we all have opinions but rarely a viable solution. Through short fiction, poetry, essays, and photography, these opinions describe the world from the vantage point of acquired knowledge and experience, assets not yet earned by younger creators. The message, not stylistics, dominates.
Envision its contributors sitting on a porch of your own device, each offering a manuscript or photo intended to intrigue, beguile, fascinate. Sit beside them, attend to their words and pictures, and discover shards of wisdom.
And in the words of my attorney: All future rights to material published in Front Porch Review are retained by the individual authors and photographers.
Glen Phillips
Publisher
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We publish thoughtful, provocative fiction, poetry, essays and visual arts.
∙ Submissions are accepted year-round.
∙ If accepted, submissions may appear in any issue.
. Biographical information will be requested for accepted submissions.
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∙ If your work is accepted elsewhere prior to our evaluation, please notify us.
∙ No erotica or works which rely on explicit language or gratuitous violence.
∙ All work must be original and in English.
∙ Fiction and essays can be up to 5000 words.
∙ No novel excerpts
. No memoirs
∙ No genre fiction; e.g., horror, science fiction, mysteries
. Fiction should deal with critical, universal aspects of human nature.
∙ Essays should treat a contemporary topic and express a reasoned opinion.
∙ Poems should have strong images and concise, evocative language.
∙ Photos which elicit the comment, "How interesting!" are desired.
∙ Submit photography as .jpg files; do not send .tif or .bmp files.
. Accepted photos may be cropped or reduced to fit the available space.
∙ Prose and poetry may be accompanied by one or more relevant photos.
∙ Mac users, please be sure that your files are readable by Windows 7.
∙ This magazine does not currently pay upon publication.
Accepted material will be edited. If changes are deemed significant, the contributor will be notified and given an opportunity to accept the changes or request that the piece be withdrawn from publication.
Send submissions to glenhphillips@att.net. Send 1 prose piece, 1-5 poems, or 1-4 photos at a time. For prose or poetry, type or paste your submission into the body of the e-mail message. We will not open any unsolicited print attachments. Photos, however, should be sent as attachments. Include your name and e-mail address.
Please expect to wait up to one month for a reply. Occasionally, with e-mail, there are technical difficulties. We cannot be responsible for delay or loss of submissions. To check on the status of your submission after one month has passed, please send a message to glenhphillips@att.net
By submitting your work to Front Porch Review, you grant us the right to archive your work online for an indefinite period of time. You retain all other rights. Once the issue featuring your work has been published, you are free to republish your work as you wish, online and/or in print. You are also welcome to create a link to Front Porch Review (http://www.frontporchrvw.com/) from your personal Website.
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As they are free, online versions of Front Porch Review do not cover production costs. Excellent issues are the result of generous reader support. If you are interested in contributing a donation, please send your check payable to:
Glen Phillips
837 Parkwood
Park Ridge, IL 60068
Thank you, thank you for any amount.
Contact
I want this magazine to be appropriate for the intended audience. Therefore, I hope you, the reader, will react to the published material. I hope you will send your reactions, questions, concerns, or suggestions for improvement to me at glenhphillips@att.net. By doing so you will help the various contributors improve their skills, and you will help me publish the magazine my audience wants.
If this is your first experience with this magazine, and you want to be notified when the next issue is available, e-mail me at glenhphillips@att.net.
Glen Phillips
Publisher
Fiction,
Too Hot in Tucson
Buck wiped his face with a hand towel already wet with sweat. "Damn it, Hazel, whose idea was it to retire in Tucson?"
"Don't look at me," said Hazel.
They were sprawled in lawn chairs on the back porch of their house in the desert foothills. The view from the porch, which was on the shady side of the house, was up Pima Canyon. The rolling desert in the foreground, then rising canyon walls, and finally mountains - this view was breathtaking; but for several weeks the panorama had baked in unrelenting waves of heat. The canyon seemed to undulate dizzily as if responding to volcanic pressures. Buck, a tall, handsome man with graying hair and an air of muscular energy about him, hiked three days a week in the canyon, but the brutal heat had put a stop to that.
"Who'd think they'd ask us to shut off the air conditioners," said Buck. "Main bearing froze up in one of the generators. You'd think the guys at the power plant'd have enough brains to keep it greased. Damn, no air conditioning in this inferno."
"Well, if you're going to put men in charge..." Hazel mused.
"Right. I seem to remember a black cloud over your sewing machine when the motor burned up because...let's see, what was the reason?"
"Oh, yes," sighed Hazel, "I forgot to oil it. Point well taken. At least I can say it wasn't my idea to retire out here."
"You didn't object, though."
"Good thing, too." She glanced at her wilted pansies. "If I'd objected, you'd have really been hot - under the collar that is. As things stand now, it's too hot to wear a collar."
"You were always a hot number, Hazel. At the moment, you're too hot to handle. Even if I had the energy to get up from this chair."
"I'm too hot to touch, forget handling."
"Think of it, Hazel, if we'd retired near Madison, we could be teaching Shakespeare and Chaucer in air conditioned rooms - at least a day or two a week."
"I'm going inside for a glass of ice water. That is if the ice hasn't melted in the freezer. You want a glass?"
"You're reading my mind."
"Ha! That's never been a problem."
She stood, facing the canyon. He looked at her through half-open eyes. She was as straight and slender as she had always been. Even with her sweaty hair plastered to the back of her neck, and her thin, soggy dress clinging to her sweaty thighs, he saw nothing but elegance. She moved across the porch with an easy grace and disappeared into the house.
Buck shifted in his chair, his eyes shut, waiting for the cool water. The screen door slammed, and he heard her soft approach. "The cold tap's running at 110 degrees. I nearly died of thirst waiting for the ice to cool my water. Here, I brought a pitcher and a glass for you."
"Thanks. You know, you're not a bad old broad."
"What I hate most," she stamped her foot against the floor, "is lookin' at my burned-up pansies. Wish I had the gumption to pull 'em out by the roots and get 'em out of my sight."
"This is really my goof, Hazel. You wanted to buy that property in Wisconsin. I wish I'd listened to you."
"If it will soothe your conscience any," she said, "I saw on TV last night that it's been a hundred degrees or more in Rhinelander for thirteen days straight. The water level in Big Lake St. Germaine is down two feet. The fish are too lazy to go for bait."
"At least they got shade up there." He refilled his glass. "You're right, though, the pansies are a bad bet for Tucson. You're going to have to learn to love cactus."
"Yeah, I guess," said Hazel. "Speaking of gardening, there's Ms. Cutie Pants with her watering can. Still trying to keep that orange tree alive."
Ms. Cutie Pants was their neighbor, Margie, a woman of maybe forty. Buck could tell she was making the most of her good looks and sultry demeanor. Margie's husband, Bob, was a salesman and out of town two weeks of every month. She usually dressed for maximum exposure, and consistently chose to display herself when Buck was on the back porch. A couple of times she'd gotten him over to her place to help with some problem that seemed to him more contrived than real. He was as susceptible as any man to the mysteries of seduction. He also realized she was lonely, Bob being gone so much.
"Some women are blessed with good genes," said Hazel. "Feast your eyes on all that pulchritude."
Buck opened his lids, half way. "So, is it reassurance you're wanting? Okay, here it is. Hazel, you've got elegance. Me, I'll take grace over ersatz carnality any day. So relax, it's too hot for anxiety." He let his eyes slide shut.
"Can't say as I feel all that elegant with sweat dripping from every pore. Would you say I'm oozing elegance? You do raise an interesting question, though. Is there more substance in style than in flesh? One of the big questions, you know. Worthy of a mind like yours."
"You and your metaphysics," he muttered.
That night, as they lay in bed, the temperature had dropped to ninety-four. The windows were open in hope of a breeze, but it was a vain hope. The sheets were damp. In the distance a coyote howled under the full moon.
"Buck, I don't like coyotes. I want my mama."
"Go to sleep, Hazel. I'll protect you."
Shortly after the coyote howled again, the phone rang, and Buck answered. "Hello."
"Oh Buck, this is Margie, you neighbor to the north." She was whispering into the phone.
Buck turned to Hazel. "It's Cutie Pants."
Hazel switched on the light and propped her self on one elbow, female antennae quivering.
"What is it, Margie? You sound frightened," he said.
"I'm sure there's a prowler outside my house. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared."
Buck was a big man and imagined himself to be a rough man as well. He thought, "If Hazel needed help and I weren't around, I hope somebody would help her."
"You stay inside, Margie. Call the police. I'll be there in a couple of minutes." He hung up the phone, pulled on his sandals, and felt in the drawer for the flashlight.
"What's going on?" said Hazel.
"Margie thinks there's a prowler outside her house. I'm going over there."
"Why doesn't she just wait for the police?"
"I'm going. Be right back, unless..."
"Buck the hero!"
He got his keys and made sure the front and back doors were locked. The night was moonlit and beautiful, except that the hot sand burned his toes, and he thought about rattlesnakes - nocturnal hunters. As he approached Margie's back door he stopped and listened then quietly checked both sides of the house. Nothing. When he came around to the front, he saw her shadowy figure through the open door, standing in the soft moonlight filtering through the screen.
Prowler my ass. Maybe I underrated carnality...volcanic pressures stirring...all right...chance of a...I could...then there's Hazel.
"Oh, Buck, you can see for yourself..." She took a step closer to the door and into the light. "The door's not locked. Come to me. It won't take us long. I don't cling, honest I don't."
My God, all that need!
Walking home in the dark, he was could barely make out the thorny cactus. Think of it, what a beautiful woman...and all that neglect.
In the bedroom, Hazel propped herself up again, and said, "Well?"
He looked at his wife, "You know, Hazel, of all the women I could have married, you've probably turned out to be the best of the bunch."
"Thanks for the beautiful thought, but aren't you going to tell me what happened?"
"Well, yeah, I got over there and checked around the house. There was no prowler. When I came around in front, Margie was just inside the screen door, feeling a little silly, I suppose, for dragging me out of bed. I did what I could to put her mind at rest and told her she needed a good night's sleep. Then I came on home, and here I am. Hazel, you're not thinking that...? No, I know you better than that." He looked at her still propped up on her elbow, still sweaty. "If it weren't so damned hot..."
"Turn off the light, Buck. I just felt a breeze."
Poetry,
Metamorphosis
Billows of pink, blossoms in profusion
draped the old cherry tree.
Emotions ricochet to your toes
and superlatives fail.
As summer unfolds the old tree
is devoid of flowers, it's stark,
ugly. Gnarled branches
pierce the sky; jetting without
rhyme or reason.
Cherries turn from green to black.
They don't improve the tree's looks.
Birds come for the cherries;
they must close their eyes
when they eat.
Snow smothers the tree.
Giant flakes cling to branches like
cotton and the metamorphosis
begins.
The old tree now sparkles in the sun.
Its beauty returns. It's winter's magic.
It's now a delicate piece of art.
Poetry,
Knighthood
It happened at the Harris,
perhaps while he dozed
during the first act.
Somehow he had become a Sir.
He first noticed a Brooks Brothers gentleman Sir him at intermission,
waving him ahead of several ordinary people,
while he was negotiating a path towards a faster-moving aisle.
To begin that infernal climb to the lobby.
At first he thought perhaps the gentleman had only sensed
his pressing need to scale Stair Mountain
and reach the restroom trail.
With all possible speed.
But when he later strolled casually out the restroom exit there was
more evidence of something new, as he was respectfully Sirred
by a medium-well-done adult of evident stature.
Patiently holding the door to safely usher him out.
It was time to do a controlled test of this Sir condition, so
he strode the trail back while exuding a youthful non-Sir air,
projecting an "I made it, no sweat" aura.
Stepping smartly to base camp for the thousand-and-one-step descent.
Climbing boldly down, sporting that non-Sir nonchalance, he approached
a gaggle of chattering aisle blockers and deftly
maneuvered to slip past them.
But there it was again, "Excuse us, Sir," this time twice.
Finally, as he reached his row and shuffled sideways to his seat,
he grazed some unrisen fellow's feet
and promptly received a "Pardon me, Sir."
Rising up in the air.
Now it sank in that he had actually become a Sir,
but he wondered how it could suddenly have come about.
Did someone prank a "Sir Me!" sign on his back?
Not likely ─ the Queen must have knighted him while he dozed.
Poetry,
Directions
It was a long-standing routine.
She gave rapid-fire directions
about how to do everything.
Big or small.
He complained over and over.
Stop already
I'm not a child.
I know, I know, I know, she said.
She laughed but she didn't stop.
Though it was silly
she just couldn't help it.
It was a part of her being.
One day he wondered
what would happen
if she lost her voice,
Like in laryngitis
Maybe she would
scribble rapid-fire notes on
reams of paper, spewing forth.
Directions fluttering through the air like confetti.
Maybe she would
become telepathic and
transmit high frequency streams of directions.
Radio waves penetrating his brain.
But what would happen
.if she couldn't speak
.if she couldn't write
.if she couldn't be telepathic?
All those directions being relentlessly generated.
Piling up inside with
nowhere to go.
Building up a great pressure.
Maybe she would swell up
like an expanding balloon.
Growing ever larger and rising into the air
as children shouted look, look up there.
And go pop in the sky like a giant gum bubble.
Pandora's Box flung open
with eight zillion directions raining down.
People flailing and crashing in a chaos of obedience.
He realized protective measures were needed.
Some kind of insurance to safeguard
the population of the earth from the risk
of drowning in a Noah-flood of directions.
Being an inventive person he knew what would work.
He would have her fitted
with a pressure relief valve.
Just like a water heater.
She saw that this was a good idea,
so she told him
where to buy it
and how to install it.
Poetry,
Beneath His Winters
Stashed, I suppose, against
the hum of absence
that hangs
about the cottage
or the sinking
when her face refuses
to form in his thoughts
he keeps a palm-sized pistol
black among his balled socks.
Each morning in the dark
he can suffer
its clarity
cold and almost unbearable
like plunging a hand
beneath the thawed surface
of the lake.
Beneath his winters
he buries his longing,
plants an orderly Spring,
dried embryos
laid beneath a mound
of hand-worked earth
that was his, free of stones
and pliant with elm rot.
When they expose their soft throats
he will accept,
as if pleasantly surprised,
their invitation,
upend the hibernating boat,
give the family of snakes
space to slither
through curled grass, yellow
from the press of winter,
to cool their panic in the lake.
(This poem originally appeared in the South-West Review, Volume 88, No. 1)
Essays,
Creaks and Sqeaks
Another day is done. I walk through my house, pulling down shades and closing doors. The floor squeaks beneath my feet, reminding me of how many times I have walked this path, closing the house for the evening. Now it is on to bed. I climb the stairs, anticipating which one will squeak this evening. My bones creak. They are telling me it has been another tiring day. Perhaps, once again, I have done just a little more than I am supposed to.
I am careful as I walk down the hallway to my bedroom. I know there are many squeaks in this hall, and my little grandson is sleeping. He seems to hear every little creak and squeak as you come down the hall. I gingerly navigate the hall and miss those squeaky boards but, alas, once again I hit one or two. He stirs but, luckily, does not wake.
As I open my closet door to get my nightgown, the door squeaks. I pause to think about how often I have opened and closed this door, all the different outfits bought and then given away. All the pounds that have come, gone, and come back once again.
I wash my face until it is squeaky clean and brush my teeth. I am ready to put my cares aside for the day. I sit on the edge of the bed and pause to remember all the many gifts given me today: good friends, neighbors, and family; a lovely home; a beautiful country; and my faith in God and humanity.
I turn out the light and pull my creaky body into bed. I lay there and think of how truly blessed I am. I roll over and close my eyes. My bed squeaks one last time reminding me how much I love the sounds of my home.
Poetry,
Kisses and Peanuts
Peanuts are quite
marvelous things.
What joy salted peanuts
bring.
There is no doubt;
few things are better
than a bag of salted peanuts.
Kisses are quite
marvelous, too.
What joy a lingering
kiss brings.
If there were no kisses,
lost to lovers that
incredible magic.
Science explanations
make me recoil.
The peanut is just so
much starch and oil.
And kisses are only a
cultural thing.
Scientists are immune to
what kisses may bring.
Scientists proceed with a
stiff upper lip.
They need to get a grip.
To their very cherished
beliefs they cling,
Until they've neutered
most everything.
Peanuts are quite
marvelous things.
What joy a few peanuts
brings.
Kisses are quite marvelous,
too. Peanuts and kisses
are so much fun
that no one can
have just one.
Poetry,
Manual for Enhanced Interrogation
If you drown a prisoner again and again
and again,
he will sing any song
you request. And after his screams
have hollowed out a cavern
in what used to be your soul,
he will go limp with shock and death
will follow.
This is not a theory,
like evolution, but a fact
that can be measured,
like how much accumulated grace
a single act of cruelty can displace.
Later, on your bed, it may help
to count the springs of the bunk overhead.
Recite each number
like a coded prayer.
Let your iron tears flow
freely down your iron face.
Then watch the square of sunlight
as it crawls across the floor,
and spills what's left of light and warmth
like water beneath the door.
Poetry,
The Crone
I have known old women and old men, too
One old woman I know carries a young woman in her bones
Many old men long to resurrect their youth
This old woman is like the wind
She is the reason the lake stirs
Plentiful are her children in the four corners
Her caring like rain nourishes even weeds
Her neighbors do not suspect such vitality
She looks irrelevant, a kindly
old soul who needs help with her groceries
Her magic manifests when they're not looking
She does not hide
Giving and getting is all the same for her
I dread her loss, but she may never die.
Poetry,
Words
The mind is a loaded gun
Thoughts are unfired bullets
If cruel and hateful but unspoken,
These bullets are blanks
Once fired, the best surgeon cannot repair their damage.
I can endure
The fiery look in your eyes
Spittle leaving your lips
Your curled fists, but
The bitter smell of your hate
Your spiteful words shoot,
Pierce my heart,
Any pity and remorse banished.
Essays,
Ruminations
RETIREMENT
After working for over forty years, I'm no longer a hunter, but a gatherer. I'm headed for the old barn, hanging up my spurs, and going out to the big pasture of retirement. I'm now grazing in my wife's pasture, where she has been the lord and master for all of our married life. I am on her turf, her territory and in her face. We both have an adjustment that redefines our past roles as we have known them. You know, ME work downtown, YOU work home. Well, that is no longer the case, which reminds me of the behavior of horses in a herd on the range.
The stallion stands off from the herd, guarding against potential predators and suitors for his mares. He has two jobs: protection and - well, we know what the other one is. The lead mare nurtures the herd and bosses the young, the old, and anybody else that gets in her space. When the stallion gets too old, or whatever, to do his job, a little operation is performed on him, and he becomes a gelding.
Geldings have a distinct role in the herd - MIND THE DOMINANT MARE! - a role she seems to love. She bosses the living stuff out of them, and generally makes their lives miserable if they don't fall into line. By now I think that you can catch on where I'm going.
While I haven't had an operation, MY new status as a "guy" hanging around the barn in my wife's territory gives pause to my status as, ah, a gatherer male, and I better behave. She says that I can't hang around all day watching TV re-runs of the invasion of Normandy. Nuts. A lifetime of "honey dos" have piled up, and I better get off my couch and get started. Home Depot is my new pasture.
Well, I ain't going to take this new role lying down, except for an occasional nap. I have staked out a piece of turf in the basement that I call my "office," and she better not even come close to my 4'x4' space. I can cruise the Internet to my heart's content, play with my files, and even look busy and important. That's enough for me, and I don't even have to put on a shirt, tie, and a suit to impress her.
I've even gone so far as to start a new business that seems to have a good future. Canning pony farts for homesick cowboys seems to have a market, and I am going to pursue it with vigor - at least, it will get me back in the pasture again and out of the barn.
WHOOPIE, IT'S A...
The high cost of medical care has our nation reeling, and the hospitals, in particular, are bleating like a bunch of cows that need milking. The large number of medical staff, the high cost of modern equipment, and the need for new doctors' lounges has caused a big drain on their budgets. Accordingly, hospitals are looking for new ways to increase their revenue stream - OK, profits.
They've tried charging $10 for an aspirin, $100 per visit by a bed pan orderly, and $20 an hour for parking, and they still come up short. They need a new plan, and I think I have a partial solution.
The birth of a baby is something the latest generation has discovered. Today the father, the grandparents, and as many shirttail relatives and friends as the birthing room can hold can watch the event. Indeed there is a cable TV program which follows a couple, almost from the moment of conception to the televising of the birth. Hospitals would do well to take advantage of this hot trend.
Here's the business plan. First, the birthing room will be greatly enlarged to accommodate a big crowd of invitees. The room will have stadium seating like that at a sporting event, under which colleges will have kiosks touting their wares to the new candidate for higher education. Second, a huge stadium-like TV will show every intimate detail of the process. It will, of necessity, have instant replay capabilities. Finally, soft background music will drown out any moans, groans, or screams of the father.
At the outset of the guests' visit and before they are seated, they will be escorted for a viewing of the epicenter of the event. Next, they will be given a moist towel with which they can take one swipe at the mother-to-be's forehead while they speak words of encouragement and cheers. They will then be seated in the stands for the viewing. There, the hospital's staff will go through the crowd, selling beverages of choice, hot dogs, and tickets to the staff lottery. No ball caps will be sold, but T-shirts and pennants with "Go, (mother's name)" will be available at a modest price.
After the child is born and "Whoopee, it's a boy" or Whoopee, it's a girl" is shouted, everyone will get a shot at cooing, gooing, or frowning at the little critter. Each departing guest will then receive a souvenir videotape of the event along with a validation of their parking tickets.
The hospital's bean counter will now be as ecstatic as the new parents as none of this folderol is going to come cheap. Someone is going to have to pay for it. Probably some insurance company will get stuck with it someday, but right now it is going to be the parents. Since this is the actual birth day of the child, presents will be in order and, naturally, cash will be accepted, along with credit cards and pledges.
After the mother and child have spent their allotted two hours in the hospital following the birth, a post-birth party can resume at their home. Naturally, the birth tape will be replayed continuously not only for the benefit of those guests who were there but also to share the event with those who were not.
When everyone has left, and all is quiet, and the newborn is warmly snuggled in its bassinet, Mom and Dad will have a moment to reflect on the whole event and the hospital bill. I'm sure that it will be small in relation to the joy they feel at the birthing process viewing party. As the old saying goes, "Anything that comes out OK in the end is worth it."
RESTATING
Recent events have headlined companies who restate their revenues and earnings to make their financial record look better than it really is. We, the gullibles, have too often bought stock in these companies and have lost our shirts as a result. The boards of directors, top management, and their advisors have come in, rightly so, for some severe criticism for the practice of restating almost everything. On the other hand, maybe the practice of restating has become so ingrained in our current culture that they should be given a little slack; e.g., thumb screws prohibited as punishment.
Let me explain my generosity by examining our society's practice of restating the truth. The most obvious area we seek to restate is our faces. We change them with new noses, new cheeks, new eyes, and sexy lips. We also don't like our hair. Men get weaves and transplants to cover up what ain't there any longer. Women use enough hair dye to camouflage the Pentagon several times a year so that terrorists can't find it.
Consider our bodies. Restated boobs, thighs, and tummies consume as much of our personal budgets as interest on the national debt. We get them tucked, made larger, smaller, and flattened with such fervor that the medical schools are having trouble supplying the doctors to keep up with the demand for plastic surgery. Scientists are also getting into the act. Soon we will be able to discover which part of our DNA will cause us problems in our future and correct the genetic flaw. Maybe some will want to go so far in restating themselves that they will be cloned. Our imagination will have no limits.
We also have a practice of restating our lives. Human resources people claim that few resumes can be believed any more. It seems that we take liberty with our past accomplishments. Change a fact here, a date there, and pretty soon you've a resume that's restated to the extent that it would even make Charles Manson look good.
What brought the practice of restating our lives to my attention was my attendance at the funeral of a long time friend and business partner. During the service, a family member expounded at great length about his achievements. For more than a few minutes, I thought I was at the wrong funeral. Apparently, someone had a good imagination when his life history was written for all of us to remember. I soon realized that the family member was taking the liberty of restating a few things. So, what the heck, why blow the poor guy's cover as he was about to be covered.
I next thought about my own life and what would be said about me at my funeral. I quickly knew that I, too, would need some major restating. I pondered how I could assist those who will have the difficult task of trying to make an old penny look like a new dime. Just how could I leave the impression that I would be a big loss to my family and society now that I'm gone? After some time, I came to the conclusion that my life would not have to be restated to improve it. When you come to think of it, what more could be said about a boy than that he came from Peoria, IL.
Poetry,
Ghosts
And so, it is time
for the molting -
a cleansing ritual.
In comes tomorrow
and without warning
it is now.
Your picture after three decades still sits, undusted.
What do remnants do but hang around?
It is, after all, a measure.
Two theater stubs in the junk drawer,
A bag of clothes, unfit, out of time,
old photos on their way to be sorted,
a newspaper recipe - never made it to the table
and your picture after three decades
barely visible, still sits undusted.