Fred Aiken Writing

I’ve edited friends on the veranda

as I grow older in the past reeling back to

strains stranded on back porches of dilapidated houses experiencing

gentrification for the first, not the last

time, winding up to the pitch, leaning in for the hit,

collapsing to the impact of ball in hand,

waiting for skin to bruise and remove all pain

as blue makes way for purple makes way for red

makes waves in soundless echoes popping

over the fence to hide out from all,

not every,

criticism drawn in sand castles built to mimic prime real estate

in a great school district where the kids are definitely

not taking drugs to experience grammatical ecstasy from their lives

comma flight