Upon The News that He Will No Longer Have the Only House on His Dead-End Road in the Mountains of SW PA
by Kevin C Stewart


If you care to, look at the half moon,
a communion wafer split, if you take
it that way. That moon lights the trees and brush
lurking in the lot next door. Try this fudge
brownie—Alice B's recipe—here in this box
and you will see that there is time

to contemplate shadows and our time
here together on this porch, the moon
scratched by tree tops, the brownie box
emptying. Our minds are on the take.
These woods will disappear just as these fudge
brownies do. The trees quaver. The brush

whispers. Does it know? We can't brush
aside this possibility. There was one time
on the banks of the Allegheny, fudge
brown and rising, that day in Moon.
Unemployed, I wondered what it would take
to swim across, but a floating beer box

distracted me. You see, from this box
rose a red fox, paws over lip. The box brushed
a stone bridge pier, spun, and listed. Take
the fox's next move, if you will. It timed
its leap too late. Plunked. Swam. The moon
as reachable as that stone pier. We can't fudge

distance, no matter how close. These fudge
brownies contrast nicely with a box
as white as an afternoon moon.
We can toss it among the trees and brush
and it will rot into the mast in due time.
How long do you think this process takes?

Long enough for us to take a second take?
For the marijuana-laced fudge
to work its way through our bodies in time
for rational thought? We can shadow box
progress but we always lose. Tomorrow, a bush
hog will lay bare that lot. The ground will moon

the sky. Close the box. Brush the crumbs
from your shirt. Even half a moon knows
you can't take it upon yourself to fudge time.






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