Michael E. Strosahl

Breakfast of the Recently Singled Man

Michael E. Strosahl

Orange juice, from the container, snacking on slices of pepperoni from the bag (toss a couple to the dog who follows every step) while the pan heats up a double pat of real butter, melting it evenly across the metal.

Two eggs, no four, cracked to a sizzle, shells tossed on the counter, salt and fresh ground pepper, fried until whites bubbly, then

mangled with the pancake flipper, yokes broken and bleeding, heat coagulated, a delicious mess.

Because who cares what it looks like? Who is there to see it’s not pretty: sunny-side up, over-easy, even pre-scrambled to a perfect yellow rather than these orange and white uneven splotches.

Another pat to clog that last clear artery and they slide easily to a plate (fork off a portion into the dogs bowl as he runs forward to gobble the offering). A slice of cheddar and

to the couch, flipping on the tube— mostly for noise— seat reclined, feet up, (the dog comes to huddle close, hoping for another blessing, noticing she is not there to shoo him away) cutting into that first bite— too hot as it bounces and sears tongue and roof, tumbled cool enough to swallow with another swig of orange juice, from the container, that somehow soothes the burn, makes the hurt go away.

Michael E. Strosahl is a midwestern river-born poet, originally from Moline, Illinois, now living in Jefferson City, Missouri. Besides several appearances in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Maik’s work has appeared in Flying Island, Bards Against Hunger projects, on buses, in museums and online at indianavoicejournal, poetrysuperhighway and projectagentorange. Maik also has a weekly poetry column at the online blog Moristotle & Company.

Seasons

John T. Leonard

1.

Something fluttered in the dawning; traces of stars, the splintered bones of what could have been a planet.

The rising sun reminded you of a flock of x-rays piercing through a dying fire. Your entire life floated out with the tide.

Nothing outsmarts gravity, your father once said. It was late October, 4 am, on a pebble beach in Maine.

2.

I’m standing on a green carpet, waiting out the day like I’ve waited out most of my days, overwhelmed by a stillness which continues to stalk me.

It traces my footsteps when I sneak to the woodshed for a smoke. I hear it in the next aisle over while I’m grocery shopping; loudly drumming its fingers to the insectile buzz of fluorescent lighting, waiting impatiently while I choose my off brand of frozen peas.

It huffs, face half hidden behind a trashy magazine, while I stand in the checkout line at Kroger. It jogs beside my car in the rain, always keeping pace.

3.

There is a chemical so rare that it can only be found tucked somewhere in the shadows of my bedroom on winter afternoons— days when I should be working. I can only feel it if I reach out blindly, and only for a moment before it morphs into a cobweb or a pale yellow lampshade or a pile of dirty laundry, left for weeks.

Meanwhile, we buy small packets of tomato seeds and plan to start a garden, sometime next spring.

4.

Only half of the storm made it to the harbor.

Your mother picked you up by your childhood and spun you into an ornament, sweet and fragile

like glass sugar.

In the rain, the best of your forgiveness melted away.

More specifically, when they found your car, the windshield was drenched in your brother’s cheapest whiskey.

They say the air smelled like melting plastic. It tasted like gravel and summertime and all those lemon-lime beach towns you swore you never loved…

John T. Leonard is an award-winning writer, English teacher, and poetry editor for Twyckenham Notes. He holds an M.A. in English from Indiana University. His previous works have appeared in Chiron Review, December Magazine, North Dakota Review, Ethel Zine, Louisiana Literature, Jelly Bucket, Mud Season Review, Nimrod International Journal, The Indianapolis Review, Genre: Urban Arts, and Trailer Park Quarterly among others. He lives in Elkhart, Indiana with his wife, three cats, and two dogs. You can follow him on Twitter at @jotyleon and @TwyckenhamNotes.