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by Kenneth Gurney

"Butter the roll,
the rock trucks,
the last squall
and all your hairpins.

Close the book
on fire trucks,
the long heave
of the valley,
the unlit porch lamps
at night."

Gather creek rocks,
moonlight, the "E"
from the "PASS
and a stray red shoe
on the side of the road.

She says, "The power is out."
"Smell the fire burning."
"The emergency number
answers with a recorded message."

I sit on the concrete steps,
thank the clouds for this movie screen,
this blown transformer, this doodling
in my note pad.

She joins me in the margins,
in the poverty of illumination:
electric torch and a hill aglow
a mile, or so, up the valley.

Then there is the discussion of choice:
why that hill? that transformer
for a 4th of July burst of pyrotechnics,
that non-echo of sirens delayed
by a recorded message?

We, the proverbial we,
would like to know. But not here.
Not tonight. Not as a poem
in my note pad, where, previously,
my muse butters a roll, a rock truck, a ...

It makes no sense. I unknow.
Well, it makes as much sense
as the fire up the valley,
the popping echo of dry pines,
this desire for closure.

About the author:
Poet Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM. He produces the poetry website Origami Condom. His work appears on the web and in print in a quantity sufficient to cause him to smile. In his spare time he walks the foothill trails, attends baseball games (in season), visits the movie houses and reads books.

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Midnight Picnic
a novel by
Nick Antosca


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