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      November 16, 2015Enchilada NightMike Faran

      I didn’t want my son to be
      that kid picking bugs off his t-shirt &
      eating them while
      sitting in the bleachers with
      everybody watching.
      But that’s who I have—
      an obese, alienated bug-eater.
      Low IQ but not low enough for the
      Special Ed program.
      He’s big for ten but they don’t want
      him on the team.
      Robert & I walk back to the car;
      he said he wished it was Friday already—
      Enchilada Night.
      I take his hand & guide him to the
      parking lot; his hand is sticky but I don’t
      want to know why.
      We both buckle up. Before I start the car
      I tell him that it is Friday—
      Enchilada Night &
      his eyes light up brighter than any
      sphere in the heavens.
      I ruffle his hair &
      try not to imagine what he has in his mouth.

      from #49 - Fall 2015

      Mike Faran

      “I spent much of my childhood in England—attending English schools—and even now in my dotage I find myself being tripped-up by Brit spellings. Just today I wrote ‘realise’ instead of ‘realize.’ I knew early in life that I was in for a war with words. So I became a poet.”

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