Hey Y’all,
The doorbell rang yesterday morning at 6:13. I pulled on some jeans, dragged myself into the living room and peeked through the peep hole in the front door. Or is that peeped through the peek hole? At any rate, there was no one on the porch, but at the bottom of that tiny fisheyed landscape I noticed something fluttering in the morning breeze. I opened the door and saw the back panel of a Cheerios box sliding across the decking. Knowing immediately who had left it there, I leapt toward the piece of pasteboard and managed to trap it under my bare foot just as the wind was about to send it flying off in the general direction of Hickory. Turning over my prize, I found, written in green Sharpie, the latest poem by my neighbor, H.R. Higgy. 






in my dreams

i dreamed chickens got so big

that kids rode on their backs

it seems kids once rode flying pigs

but people laughed at that

so not wanting to be laughed at

children gave up flying

and took to riding chickens

in my dreams i hear them crying

for children miss the freedom

to soar on piggy wings

with no one laughing at them

at least not in my dreams

i wish that i could change

the way i dream at night 

and those gigantic chickens

could suddenly take flight

with laughing children clinging

to their feathery backs

cause when kids ride giant chickens

nobody laughs at that 

but in my dreams those chickens

with those children hanging on

walk around here on the ground

and the piggies fly alone

Now, that ranks right up there with Whitman. Arnold Whitman, who works at the tire store. Brilliant poet.


See ya out there!

Michael Reno








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