Nothing screams heresy 
more than cream and jam 
applied to one’s scone 
in the wrong order.

Mid-meal, I think of when
she made me noodles—iced
beef broth with julienne
cucumber, radish, sliced

Bang. Then buzz. Then clang. Then doom.
A marching band in a tin cocoon.
The table slides. My breath retreats.
My muscles lock. My heart skips beats.
Don’t move, they said. I swore, I won’t,
which means, of course—I might. I don’t.

New issue arriving on August 20th, 2025!

That was Sunday, before the watchman and the dogs chased me out of the landfill. Now it seems as if I have misplaced the Ferrari. I remember leaving the car idling on the street while I stopped in at City Hall to see if the landfill had a lost and found. May have left keys in the car. Don’t see it anywhere. Che sara lieu sara, as Enzio Ferrari might say. At least I didn’t get a parking ticket.