A Turkey in the Context of Bowling
after Mark Leidner
 He wrote a poem in the brim of his cowboy hat. His math was all wrong. The song was something like a loaded coal train. A winter spritzer. A felony of talons. His spread of weather was a crime of gossip. Sure, the piano was cool in the sun but why so quick to pile the bricks? And a pigeon for dinner? It grew bigger each bite.
 The tiniest time capsule holds one thumb. When the aliens arrive, they find a child on the phone. Midnight is the best time to be an island roof. Hymnal window, mildew skewers. Strange, all that stuff that happened with God.
Benjamin Niespodziany is a Pushcart Prize nominee and Best Microfiction nominee. His writing has appeared in Fence, Wigleaf, Cheap Pop, Pithead Chapel, and others. He works nights in a library in Chicago.
Photo by Adi Constantin