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When My Foot was Wet

The Mississippi River seeps through the concrete, the grass is smushy when you step.

“Oh, drat.” I lift my leg. “My foot is wet.”

Well, no wonder. The sole has separated from the body.

My foot is having an out-of-body experience.

I’m having fun, running the dog through the parking lot. She tears in circles, herding imaginary sheep.


Sarcophagus Macabre scared me as a child,

his dropping vulture’s head,

his thickly drawn lines.

I study the Pogo pages. Ol’ Sarky is hanging out with Wiley Catt, scheming to cook Churchy turtle for dinner.

Mr. Macabre doesn’t do much more for me as an adult, either.


I wave my face over the steaming tea kettle,

encouraging healing into my sinus.

When I lift my head, something obstructs my vision.

I look in the mirror. I may not have cured the sinuses, but I’ve developed curls.


When NOCCA lets out, I plug in the Sacred Palm.

It stands 7 feet tall in glowing yellow and green.

I want the students to see it in my window.

I want it to give them hope.

I want them to say,

when I grow up, I’m gonna have a palm tree in MY living room.


In New Orleans,

the most eclectic city on earth,

we walk the mall.

Smoothie King, Sears, the Dollar Tree.

We’re exploring the ‘burbs.

We buy tennis shoes from Sears, a glow-in-the-dark trident from the Dollar Tree.

We sit on the bench, eyeing the mall shoppers, and sip our smoothies.


By day’s end, I’m

richer by tennis shoes,

healthier by steam,

basking in the palm’s sacred glow,

ready to take on Macabre.


here’s to creative synthesis . . .


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