Poem by Phil Scalia

The Confessions of Saint Augustine, Florida
Or…
A Coney Island Hot Dog of the Mind

Losing sleep over silly things
like the butterfly effect and bracket creep
and what flesh eating disease can do
to the pedal extremities of a skinny-legged woman
and the unsightly marks left on my back
by the wet slats of an Adirondack chair.

Doing a fist pump like Archimedes in a bathtub full of gin
while cutting myself with a Burma shave,
the doctors ordered more tests
so my fantasia grew a dysplasia.

Grandfathered
with due diligence
calculating the gray areas
of a 3-4-5 right triangle,
solving The Crime Of The Century -
Who Shot J.R.?
Only his hairdresser knows for sure.

Given half a chance
I’d stuff the fortune back in the cookie
and give it to The Man Who Has Everything.