Kentucky River, Frankfort, KY
The pickup truck’s Goodyears
are twanging a steel-pedal
song, all love-loss and blues,
and the ’67 Impala with the retired
guy and his wife riding shotgun
hums out it’s Good Vibrations.
Farm trucks full with hay
and trailers with cattle
contribute their own middle C’s
while the occasional semi joins
in with a rich, bottom bass.
Along the walkway, I stop
and watch the Kentucky river bend
into a treble clef, an inch deep,
a quarter-mile wide, and listen
to...
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I’ve decided to hold
my estate sale before
I die just to take bets
on who might buy
what. The old movie
buff down the block
who’ll snatch my autographed
photo of the Three Stooges,
Mrs. Johnston, — the lady
next store with the three
Jack Russell terriers
that never stop yipping—
I’m sure she’ll grab
that velvet Elvis
hung in the den.
And, course, there’s Frank
who runs the hardware store.
He’ll just salivate over my
Atari cartridge that plays Pong
and my wall-mounted Billy...
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I’ve tried to fry them
poach them, soft-boil,
Benedict them, approach
to their cooking both
with care and disdain
But it doesn’t much matter
they still explode and splatter
and the results on my plate
are always the same.
It makes no difference
if I use a full can of Pam
or a whole brick
of butter, I am reduced
to uttering curses,
scraping my mistakes
in heaps and gobs,
these diripienda ova
not nearly as good
as they are cracked
up to be. And the yokes!
a cruel joke of medical...
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