around the dinner table as we finished off the last of the fries that I failed to blanch properly—I suppose I’m not much of a blancher, though don’t judge me on that alone (there was that time in Maryland when I left her at the altar to go watch the horses run). A discussion really, about what to name Molly’s cat. As if we had some right to. William said the kitten reminded them of a fluffy ball of projectile phlegm which made me think of a baby mockingbird emerging from its egg, so high off the ground, watching with apparent apprehension as its mother offers it a spider. Which tastes surprisingly delightful and over in the yard next door the grass is as pretty green as the TV says it should be only the fireflies are all gone and we don’t see horned frogs around here anymore, and we still haven’t got a name for the cat. It’s not our place to say, but, ask me, Manford would suit it as well as any.
An east coast transplant in Texas, John Bartell enjoys Shiner beer and the Austin music scene, though he hasn’t taken to wearing cowboy boots. He, somehow, is currently the president of the Fort Worth Poetry Society and is a past president of the DFW Writer’s Workshop. His poems can be found in various journals, including Canyon Voices, Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase X, The Loch Raven Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Orchards Poetry Review, and Rat’s Ass Review.
