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Phil Huffy

Phil-Huffy.jpgWith nearly 100 placements in 2018, Phil Huffy scribbles away at his kitchen table, constantly worrying that he may run out of ideas. Recently seen in Gravel, Eunoia, Bindweed, Orchards Poetry and The Lyric.


What would you find, eh?
Not so long after
polio’s last gasp,
as nickel pens were clicking
and The King himself
was not yet drafted
and shops closed at 5 pm?

Men were sweatier.
They went down to the
hardware store for stuff
and smoked Luckies and Camels
without filter tips.
Beer was obtained from
impenetrable steel cans.

Cars needed shifting.
Ties were two dollars.
Ice crushers had cranks.
People at cocktail parties
talked about Jack Paar
or Peyton Place and
Grace Metalious in blue jeans.

Playgrounds had it all:
allure… injury.
Go-rounds were enjoyed
by spinning them like crazy
then leaping right on
to shove someone off
with much careless abandon.

Milk came in bottles.
Milkmen came to doors.
Chicken breasts fried whole
were served from Melmac platters
next to frozen corn
accompanied by whipped Jello.

Me, My Selfie, and I

The falling selfie pair —
neither artistically adept
nor particularly careful,

inseparable, it seems
at destinations
little improved by their arrival.

Places visually despoiled,
violated by posings
and overshadowed

though left unblemished,
except most recently,
as things turned out.

Their tripod found alone,
sentinel like and still
as the next day progressed,

the cause of their folly
apparently unrecorded
and subject to speculation,

their jollity preserved
by available images
now rendered poignant.
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