The storm reminded me of

exotic foods like jelly

and uncomfortable things like

moth-ballsy-tweed and chalky milks.

My refuge was a smoke-stained poncho

and a world of make-believe,

but that was 40 years ago.

I’ve loved old books since I was little

and many times I’ve wished

for an elbow-patch savior

to rise from the stacks

and carry us to a place of quiet abandon.

I know there’s always a mess

after a storm; I just hope there’s bread.

The discomfort tastes like

overcooked green beans and

diesel and feels like eyebrow hairs

pushed the wrong way.

The memory feels fresh

straddling a playground pommel horse,

worrying over splinters

in my young hide.

Ply me with creamy things

and I’ll forge on without complaint.

Sitting in a ghost-place

with upended furniture

and leftover gravy,

an overwhelming urge

to do an Ethel Merman impression

is making me giggle inside

but I sit stoically

with only a twitching eyebrow

betraying my ill-timed mirth.