I tap my patella and
scratch the embryo of a hole in the right knee of
faded grey jeans, the way I'd gingerly rip my skin off if
it guaranteed a glimmering slimmer figure, while
Bob Dylan warbles “How does it feeeeeeeeeeeeel?”
over a taxicab radio crackling as Main Street stalks the
chocolate dregs of the Petitcodiac River at low tide
before shape-shifting into Rue Champlain
en route to Deluxe Fries (and fish and clams and scallops and poutine),
where I'm baffled by the battlefield of
barricades and one-way entrances intended to trap any tiresome virus particles
that sneaked past the provincial peace officers.
If a sympathetic curmudgeon hadn't commiserated and assisted,
I'd have growled
past my purplish raindrop-patterned face mask aping the
foggy drizzle draped over Westmorland County.
BIOGRAPHY:
Fond of catchy rock 'n roll records, rain and cobblestone streets, language professional Adrian Slonaker (they/their/them) lives in Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada. Adrian's work, which has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, has appeared in WINK: Writers in the Know, Cajun Mutt Press, The Pangolin Review and others.