You look so pitiful now, scrutinizing rheumy eyed, your mantle all in tatters.
Call them meditations, or reflections, or call them ponderings—call them utter rubbish—these five poems have been on my computer for a while.
Everyone is duped; all see and each believes. Our sight’s a puppeteer
For lack of any other text for Kaboomka Bay, we present a 1995 assessment of the municipality, from a report titled:
Picaroon beer; wine from the Okanagan. A kernel of Taber corn in my teeth from a cob roasted over a fire.
Don’t be Malvolio. Avoid yellow socks. Learn how to laugh at a mirror.