My buddy Devon has published a book of poems, Notes for the Conquest, and it’s just really great, and available in a bunch of bookstores on the east side, and you can stalk him Here. Also from the South (Virginia,) his poetry is dusty and fuses contemporary angst with old South imagery of muskets and soldiers and glory. What’s more, he reminds me that poems can be about the tiniest thing and then transform into something grander:
One of my better ideas: make
a grilled cheese. The Gruyere
imported from that storied region
of the supermarket known to feed
millions when the bars close.
Bread, butter, motherly items.
Use the fancy skillet, the one
from the wedding registry. A gift
from whom? Sudden curiosity.
Find the cards in that box
on the closet floor, get lost
in the album. Smell smoke.
Devon, you make me wanna write poems again.
(See, I was going to write one now and put it here, but instead I just spent five minutes sifting through google image search of BEST GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH EVER, and now instead, I must go….handle that.)