Happy Valley

In a hand-potted bowl

of browns and tans,

pink-hued eggs rest

against sugar beet slices,

waiting an overdue repast.

In this season between seasons,

adolescent bats arrive—

midnight’s uninvited callers

—to this aged house,

nestled where rocky ridges

paint the sky slate and avocado.

On late August afternoons,

black bears lumber

through my back garden,

where lilting Pennsylvania Dutch carries

from next door’s farm stand,

as a last harvest is sold

and savored.


231 W. Linn St.

Like a bellows,

doors, windows

open, close

breathing ghostly life

into this tired house.


these specters abide

long dead, side-long spied

in halls, along floors

I now pace.



On Mondays at 8 a.m.,
old gods queue to file grievances
in Valhalla’s administrative office.

Again, upstart electronic deities
received human homage
in both debauchery and despair.

But, secretly, these immortals fear
they, too, will find religion
in the cult of screens.

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