Bio: John Dorroh (he/him) may have taught high school science for several decades. Whether he did is still being discussed. Three of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Hundreds more have appeared in journals such as Feral, River Heron, North Dakota Quarterly, Loch Raven Review, and Selcouth Station. He had two chapbooks published in 2022 – Swim at Your Risk and Personal Ad Poetry. He is a Southerner living in the Midwest.
"How's That for a Monday?" I. Today will be different. No, really. It will be. I’m giving the day to whoever’s in charge & stepping out of the way. I will take Sanford on a walk & let him sniff & yank & pull me into his world. We will eat chicken salad sandwiches at the edge of the lake & drink ice-cold water from the blue thermos. II. The bed went unmade & no one seemed to care. I skipped washing dishes & didn’t clean the tub. I took a nap at 2:15 & woke up with a dog in my bed. I planted bulbs & Sanford dug them up. His sweet floppy ears made me love him even more. How can I scold him when he begs for a hug? III. I meant to call the urologist to confirm my appointment. I failed to attend the Zoom session on securing investments. The concert in the park was post- poned so we had beers in the Irish pub instead. I took two huge bags of clothes to Goodwill. The line behind the store was eight cars long. We listened to an Oldies station and slurped our Moto-Mart sodas with long straws that could reach out and grab a star. I accidentally left a pack of chicken thighs in the kitchen sink since 9 in the morning. I think I should not take a chance & spoil what’s been a very nice day. "Teeny-tiny Accolades for Escape" i. Tell your mother::I’ve gone sculpting once again. Like so many other mornings when there was dew::when there was desert. When there was an unpleasant task at hand that I kept putting off, like postponing an eminent surgery to correct the manner in which I breathe. Tell her::I’ll see her when I’ve chiseled and puttied and cleaned up my mess. Tell her not to be sad:: to get in the car and take you to get ice cream – any amount, no limit, flavor of the day or something you invent. Make it a perfect time for skipping school. ::Hand her a napkin:: when she gets that look on her face. ii. Thank you for being a conduit. (What’s that?) It’s a bridge, dear:: a pathway::a way to connect two different things to celebrate::flow. You will understand one day::when you meet someone you think you love. "That Which Appears Perfectly Repurposed" The old bread knife with its stale teeth can’t saw through a sweet roll. Like so much danger to a big brown bear or a bad dream that knows how to punch a hole into your glib, lifeless soul. It was useless at the last five picnics but someone keeps forgetting to sharpen it. It may be past all that, dull and ready for being repurposed: a gray metallic strip, the perfect width for patching the slit in the corner of the compost pile, the entrance/exit for werewolves that get inside at night, the ones that wear the garlic necklaces like professionals who know exactly what they’re doing. They are smart, devious creatures, catching you off guard just when you think you’re safe, like an indestructable virus that morphs from one form to another, adapting to new cues in the environment. I ordered a new knife, hand-crafted in Germany in the Black Forest where the big bad wolf with his red breath tricked a little girl into letting him take a peak inside her goodie basket, letting him punch a hole in the beautiful brown crust with one mahogony-colored claw, sharper that any one of the teeth on my new knife that costs me and arm & a leg.
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