frequently confused
by the uninitiated ignorant of their identity.
The i of informer pushes the e of explanation;
when a racing ragamuffin stubs her little big toe
on the end of Grandma's chintzy chesterfield,
she yelps "aieeeeee"
i.e., she's in such pain she'd deny herself dessert
if it meant her discomfort would dissipate
like firecracker smoke.
But sometimes that e of explanation
gets hooked on the g of generous acts,
e.g., example-giving for which
a reader running across some savannah of arcane concepts
may be ever-grateful.

Wan sunlight peers through March murkiness
like a cadaverous voyeur surveying from
behind curtains of bratwurst while
brumal Bucktown gusts graze cheeks,
stealing tears from smarting eyes.
We should've remained in
that russet-hued deli, where,
fueled by an oily Lenten orgy of
peppers and eggs on a bun,
you used your bulky booted toes
to tap Morse code upon my ankle.
If you hadn't been my pastor,
I would've tried to decipher it.


Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, USA. Adrian's poetry has appeared in The Mackinac, Postcard Poems and Prose, Red Weather, Red Fez, ZiN Daily Archive, and others.