Fall 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 3


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Carl Kavadlo


harrison ford poem

it’s like actors audition
and this one’s better
than that one for the part.

so, the poem auditions
for the moment
as the poem auditions for
the journal.

we are not looking
for that one right now.
we are looking for this.

you are a harrison ford poem
and we are looking for
tom cruise

more teethy
ten years or so
   *   *   *
i don’t know about
yours, but this,
truthfully, has been the story
of much of my life.


Along Flatlands Avenue

I discovered a little playground. Preschoolers were running around. They were maybe 3, 4, 5. I’m a white cracker, haggard, bedraggled, red-eyed, neurotic, irritated today due to anxiety, irritated more than usual, and some of it real. I visualized a minor news article: ‘Bum found dead on the street, frothing at the mouth.’ At least I had I.D. They could identify me.
All the little children were dark, West Indian, African-American, some Hispanics, Indian children from India. Unbothered by the hot temperature, they were scampering and shouting and squiggling, running, jumping.
Then out of heaven, it seemed, burst one beautiful little girl with eyes shining like stars, a smile beaming a laser through the bars of my inner prison temporarily.
Hey, Mister, look at my picture!’ She’s waving it. It’s a beautiful crayon-colored drawing of a small animal, like a dog. She writes her name big, SHERI.
I notice all this through the playground chain-link fence where I stood mournfully.
Approaching slowly, I say, ‘It’s very pretty.’ Sheri’s friend runs over, pulls at her blouse sleeve.
Sheri, is that your daddy?’


© Carl Kavadlo



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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