scribbler
Scribbler
by chris wanamaker
I grew up near a pulp mill
got used to the smell
that spewed over streets, into markets
I have not done well
in past explosions
one from a chemistry set
ones with my dad over who would get the car
fights with my ex
resignations
but this time…
barely noticed the leak of propane
when a neighbour said your house could blow
just the strike of a match…
I will light a cigarette
smash the living room window
My burning clothes will trail
ashes of my poems flung behind me
a suicide bomber
about to detonate,
your house about to blow
I just want to scribble
my poems.
blow up
quietly
explode
neatly
make piles
precisely
controlled
demolitions
well done Chris, nicely exploded, crooked, wicked, fun
Second that. Your line break timing to me was impeccable. I especially liked the interludial feeling of “but this time…” in the tenth line to set up for the continued rapid fluidity of the rest of the poem. Great ending too.