AT BRYCE CANYON
by Don Conner

There is the Mexican boy
in tight white pants
with rocks in his pocket.
Hair, thick thatched black
with beads of sweat
careening down his neck
like miniature Rio Grandes.

His girlfriend wears pedal pushers,
but nowadays they call them capris.

There is the thin man in gabardine
with casual hips like a matador,
cigarettes in left shirt pocket,
keys in pants pocket right
jingling like a toy sleigh
being placed under the tree.

His wife is a stewardess,
but nowadays they call them flight attendants.

There is the brash man
who probably sells cars.
His striped shirt is Ivy League
but he is not.
His Nabs crumble lazily into his lap
as a hot air balloon floats overhead.

His wife is a secretary
but nowadays they call them administrative assistants.

There is my wife.
Though we’ve been in the heat all day
her cotton blouse and seersucker slacks
are starched to perfection.
She wants to take a picture
with her disposable camera.
This simple act is so joyful
that she bursts into laughter.

Remembering how much
I once loved her
causes me pain.
But nowadays they call it emotional duress.

FEATHER GIFT
by Gary Every

Pumping gas at the convenience store
when the woman at the car next to me
blurts out,
“I love your feathers.”
She is referring to my rearview mirror
adorned with maybe a dozen feathers
belonging to hawk, eagle, owl, woodpecker, and oriole.
I tell her thanks
explaining that I find the feathers while hiking.
“Where do you find them?” she asks.
“I am looking for a hawk or eagle feather
but can’t locate any.”
I open my car door
and tell her to reach inside
take her pick.
“Are you sure?”
It is a federal felony to collect feathers
even if you find them on the forest floor.
When I collect too many feathers
until my dashboard is full
I turn them into cat toys
and my cat shreds them into little bits.
“Thanks,” the woman giggles excitedly
reaching into my car
with an arm adorned with celtic tattoos,
“I have been praying to the earth mother
to bring me one.”
“You are welcome,” I say.
First time I have ever been called an earth mother.
She replies as she drives away, “I am making a wand.”
I do not have the heart to tell her
that she has picked out a turkey feather
and wonder what kind of spells her magic wand will miscast.
Gobble. Gobble.

THE GAS CRUNCH
by James Valvis

My father sees an opening in the line of cars
and wedges in front of a guy who dozed off.

Somebody blares his horn from behind us
and my father flips a bird out the window.

I’m nine years old and just starting to learn
what my father calls the poor man’s supply

and demand. That is, if a poor man demands,
someone will withhold the supply. It’s summer

and all my friends are at Camp Wecan’taffordit.
It’s two o’clock and we’re at the Getty station.

The line is so long, even where we cut in,
I can’t yet see the pumps. Another chorus

of horns behind us, another bird from Dad.
It’s so hot in the car I feel like I have a fever.

Maybe another boy would ask how much longer.
I know better. I have my window rolled down

and I stick my head outside like a dog’s.
Maybe I am a dog, I think. Woof, woof.

My father starts the car, we move up six feet.
It’s taken a half tank of gas to make it this far.

My father’s a poor man, he demands the supply,
never guessing the supply also demands him.

Maybe another boy would ask why he’s angry.
I’m not that boy. I’m a dog, remember? Woof.

My father gives up, peels out, rubber tires burning.
Starts screaming about a family called the Fuckers.

I don’t know who they are; I think maybe they’re us.