Philip Byron Oakes

With Sauce

Flibberty giblet corn fed stories

of heroic binges of charity,

feeding the appetite

for having given it all away.

A dyslexic take on a zip code of behavior,

coming up lemons in the hands of the

postman. Ringing twice the normal

speed of light and fluffy words

from home. Commas

with saddles to ride the silence,

to a meaning between the

lines etched in faces making

the weathermen who they are.

Characters in an antagonist’s drawl

fleshing out an alibi for convalescence,

thinly veiled in the thick of a limp

through the Russian revolutions

of the door.

Sure Wood

A forest stumped for an answer

as to where to sit. From whom

to seek shelter, in houses gutted

by old flames, coming back to

haunt the furnace for the hearth.

Culling the herds of the listless

for the brightest of those eyes

lost in sleep. To separate the

wood from the wooden, when

asked to loosen a grip, on a

hand in the making it what it

is. Confounding the unmitigated

with alloys of discretion, in

fending off the queries from

those who might do some good.

Anchor the garden to the ground.

Meet the qualifications in the alley.

An one for all intents serving

as a purpose, for what might

have been, as well as for what

narrowly is. As good a reason

as any to plant a tree.