alabama apron drop

by Steven J. Serafiani

cooked some blood toast
in the early hive of east
rise. drank cowboy coffee
in an alamo get-up. sat
sumatra with native
dangle. the mohawk
mosaic of life. spread
out through the mist and
spied freshly cut, freshly
planted, freshly constructed
watermelon seed see
through. where is my
being? has it gypsy’d
to alabama, dropped
split at a pancake apron
drop? I

bear witness. I must be crazed
in some way to believe all
will not die.