mustard for
your pronto-pup
—oops sorry

rope swing
over the lake…
ploosh

sawdust
at the horse show
smells like sawdust

summer afternoon
cross-breeze
—tangled in bed

c’mon number three
state fair pig race

lightning
one one thous—

Bob Reed

James Barr

When I was a small boy, my parents, sister and I lived in my grandfather’s small house. My mother’s father, a widower was a retired school principal (principal is a “prince” of a fellow, and he’s your “pal”). I was ten years old when he died—by then he was living in OUR new house—so many memories are less focused. He had green pet fish and yellow fish , with a tiny treasure chest at sea-bottom.

atop grandfather’s knee
I weigh nothing
—like the astronauts

Bob Reed

Under The Porch

Before I grew up and went to kindergarten, I mined for gold under the neighbor’s porch. Slats of light, always dank, out of sight. Good for kick the can. (Hide and seek is for babies.) Spiderwebs.

he digs
for untold riches—
using mother’s spoon

Bob Reed

Basement. Red sports locker, purple snow boots cleanly assorted, billowing dust, mites attached to fleeting layers of cat, dog hair, stirring about the mutts active legs. Cat runs, skitters up the granular concrete wall to the ledge to pounce on an errant tennis ball, crashing into antique, unfurnished furniture covered and piles by thick grey, padded blankets, keeping drips of water, on occasion, off. Mom’s basement.

empty water bowl
at last, the dog’s eyes give
their final droop

Heather Aymer

Reading about a friend's wedding at this time of year takes me back to mid-July of 1995. Chicago hadn’t been so hot since the fire of 1871, and I was a groomsman for a 112-degree wedding. (The next day, when the temperature dipped to 105, you actually felt more comfortable.) Merely stepping out of the shade on that wedding day, however, provided a toxic rush of heat that rivaled the exhaust fumes of a city bus pulling away from the curb. There was a misunderstanding with the choir, and while the singers straggled in late, the diminutive bride—in her full heavy dress—waited in a back room.

quieter than lace
the patient bride stands
fanned by her mother

Bob Reed

speeding baby rabbit
an owl perched high above
in a tree

an owl perched
high above in a tree
swoops

Heather Aymer