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      January 12, 2018Al OrtolaniThe Taco Boat

      Last night, I bought a 12-pack of tacos
      at Taco Bell, not because I was 
      especially hungry, but because I could. 
      My ship had come in, you see, 
      and for once, I was rolling in it.
      I ate six of them in front of the television
      while bingeing on episodes
      of some Netflix series, not because
      it was particularly engaging, but simply
      because I could. My ship, if you recall,
      had come in. I packed up the other six tacos
      and brought them to work for lunch
      where my fellow employees marveled,
      or laughed, I couldn’t tell which, at
      my ability to eat six soggy tortillas,
      microwaved in their wrappers, and spread
      like dollar bills on the table. I gave
      one to a friend, and she was happy,
      happy for the taco, happy for me,
      happy for everyone who waited
      for a boat, any boat, to come in.

      from #57 - Fall 2017

      Al Ortolani

      “I became interested in Emmett Kelly recently, and as I was ‘surfing’ his life, I ran into a picture of him in full Weary Willie costume trying to put out flames at the Hartford Circus Fire in 1944. I had already started the poem from a sort of Everyman position, but I worked into an Emmett Kelly as archetype poem, one that was not about the fire in particular, but about the ‘funny man’ decompressing at the end of a day. I think it relates to most of us as we leave behind our ‘public face.’ In general I find poems in little moments. Small moments, maybe profound, but probably as ubiquitous as dogs behind a chain-link fence. I like the idea of opening the gate, so I can step in closer to see if they lick my hand, or bite my ass. Mostly, they’re good guys, but not too keen on playing dead or begging for treats.”

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