WHAT WE ONCE HAD FOR BLACK FRIDAY BRUNCH

by Evan Leslie

youth and mustard 

but no bread

we buttered our cheese

corner store brie, only just past expiring

 

still good

 

little black pepper packets, “little cuties,” 

stale tortillas and yesterday’s 

turkey, shared between endless hands 

of rummy and plenty

 

of gin with Sprite, playing 

thankful 

for what we didn't 

yet have, but—damn—what we might 

 

yet get, would 

give, could 

risk

back then

Evan Leslie grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma and now lives in Houston, Texas with his Husband, Ryan, and his rescue pit bull, Rimbaud (formerly Rambo).  Evan is a cellist, arts educator, and the director of the University of Houston’s Community Arts Programs. Evan is the former Artistic Producer at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. Evan is grateful for the support and guidance he has received in workshops at Inprint Houston.  His poems have recently appeared in The Pinchand Troublemaker Firestarter. 

SHOPPING SPREE

by Jerome Berglund

chains

slashing prices

black friday

everything

must go

black friday

fire sale

while supplies last

black friday

giving

thanks

black friday 

brick

and mortar

cyber monday

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, and Modern Haiku. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

WHEN WE ARE THANKFUL

by Tricia Knoll

“‘Sleepwalking toward climate catastrophe:’ World must slash emissions immediately, UN report says.” —USA TODAY, November 26, 2019. Photo: Lightning is seen over the Atlantic Ocean on Sept. 4 as Hurricane Dorian approaches Carolina Beach, N.C. (Elijah Nouvelage/For The Washington Post)

We know there is only today
and that yesterday failed
to stop the planet’s demise.

That egos balloon up huge
and denying. Storms twirl
on gusts and blusters.

Whoever named the Black
Friday meant those days
after the forgetting,

the pivoting on spindles
as if the sunrise will always
bring on the chitter of chickadees.

When we are thankful,
we own the worry,
plumb the despair and feel

that today we are breathing.
That today we are breathing
and for this gentle gratitude.

Tricia Knoll acknowledges the irony of the bleak U.N. climate change report coming out during the Thanksgiving week in the United States. With forecasts of a polar bomb on the way, she buckles her boots. She is an eco-poet who lives in Vermont.