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:

THE CLASSIC

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.)