froming broth

the battle axe is dull. resting on the porch next to the caged black bird. the moss and the wet granite and the overhanging limbs. the backwoods beauty. engine hums, flap your gums, it's time to start the party. the froming broth is on the countertop. wrap the trout, shave the stout, walk into the madness of the early morning night. stop the truck at the edge of the bridge. it's out or in, lose or win. miles and miles later, you've seen 7 different towns that belong to noone. the potbelly stove in the corner of the cove. the atrium, the plastic bags, the tail that wags. it's all new, it's all you, it's the new way and it's here to stay.