brittle (a poem)

Working from the Cat Coule poetry writing exercise at

(Back then, I looked forward to eating hot dogs at the game…)

My dad and I used to park behind the museum,
then we’d walk across the bridge to the stadium,
the crisp leaves crunching under our feet—
crimson figures disintegrating
on the frosty graphite ground.

By the time we’d walked back after the game,
they were but crumbles
buried beneath new layers of freshly fallen leaves
soon to be joyfully kicked into the air
by me and other kids from the after-game exodus.

In the evening,
as I lazily curled up on the sofa
under warm blankets,
somewhere in Texas,
chupacabras roamed beneath the starless sky.

(20 November 2014)