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      April 1, 2014Edison JenningsWhat to Do with Leftovers

      When she doesn’t show,
      toss out the bread for birds,
      freeze the shrimp in Tupperware,
      and forget the words—

      all that awful sweet-talk
      you practiced while you cooked,
      the boyish innuendoes
      on just how good she looked.

      Plug the cork back in the wine
      (the fresh whipped cream won’t last);
      what was meant to be a feast
      has now become a fast.

      Take the pills the doctor gave
      and try to get some sleep:
      what you could not save
      was never yours to keep.

      from #41 - Fall 2013

      Edison Jennings

      “I live in Virginia with my two sons, and none of us are sure why I persist in writing poetry. But sometimes I tell my sons that maybe I write poetry because of a desire (a need?) to take part in an age-old conversation. In other words, I want to respond to a call, as in call and response. The bard calls and I squeak out a response. There are many calls and many responses, stretching back millennia. It is a communal and constantly evolving conversation. At least, that’s what I tell my sons.”

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