I am the empty Lotus Cup,
the northern panhandle’s cradle,
and backstrokes to Babb’s Island
past midnight. I’m Star Spangled
acappella, Black Velvet in a spray bottle,
and a plate of steaming crabapple cobbler.
I'm the death mask of Pretty Boy Floyd.
I’m mix-and-match Fiesta Ware,
a second story Houdini, and toxic waste,
incinerated round the clock. I'm Potter
Pete’s prom date, The Lord's Prayer
with helium, and a Hellbender Salamander
splashing through Little Beaver Creek.
I am the dog we never had.
I am East Liverpudlian Pot Pie,
served hot in the chipped dish
you won at the Coin Toss.
I'm busted knuckles and
airtime in an ’86 Dodge on Sprucevale Road —
I am Vocalise in D Minor;
The Queen cruising down the Ohio.
