Darrell Parry is a writer, artist and event organizer from Easton, Pennsylvania. He founded the online publication Stick Figure Poetry Quarterly and the monthly Stick Figure Poetry open mic. He also cofounded Lehigh Valley Poetry’s Virtual Salon, which meets on Zoom the first Monday of every month. His alter ego works in higher education, not a professor, but as one of those reviled peddlers of unaffordable course materials. Believe it or not, he even sometimes sells poetry books. Join the Stick Figure Poetry Facebook group of follow @stick_figure_poetry on Instagram
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Darrell Parry and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
………usually a small, ovular divot,
has shrunk to a
like a smile
as if it knows
what kicks and
the bulbous flesh
it burrows into.
because it has a secret
and it has never
kept secrets well.
Robin Shepard is a poet and musician living in the lowlands of California’s central valley. His second book, The Restoration of Innocence, is forthcoming from the Merced College Press.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Robin Shepard and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Breakfast at Zingo’s Café
In a truck stop in Bakersfield,
lured by the neon sign and flashing
arrow pointing toward the freeway exit,
adjacent to the Teaser Pleaser men’s club,
(too early for lap dances and overpriced
beer), I ate breakfast while driving south
to the city of make believe. The chicken
fried steak with eggs made my morning.
Gravy, a thick creamy white, dotted
with chunks of sausage, covered the biscuit
like a warm blanket. In the men’s room,
two quarters dispensed its souvenirs,
a lubricated Trojan or plastic cock ring,
in case of need, or just to say, I was here.
My waitress wore her age in her neck,
but her figure was firm and shapely,
her nails sharp and painted Corvette red.
Otherwise, pleasant in appearance, a little
older than my type, which is younger
than me, she ignored my flirtations
with every pour of black coffee. Until I
ordered the cherry pie. Then she purred,
“Any man who eats pie in the morning,
can’t be all bad. I’ll heat that up for you.”
An old man at the counter turned around,
smirking like he had a secret. “A slice of
pie is like a woman,” he winked. “Eat one
in the morning, you’re good the whole day.”