Spitball Army

This $1.50 roll of Necco Wafers was larger when I was 9. Then, I traded a 10¢ roll for a Topps Johnny Bench card, now worth $300.

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Granny’s kitchen smells of hot, fried bean empanadas. The dominant scent at Gramma’s: the Listerine with which she bathes her dog.

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Our traditional holiday cranberry plate: a cylindrical gelatin shaped like a tin can. Now, we fork-mash it, to make it appetizing.

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They fancy it up with lavender, rosewater or bacon, but I’d be content with a scoop of plain vanilla. Better yet: a glass of milk.

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The bird vaults off my bumper into a triple flip with a double reverse twist. In my rearview, I see its 10-point terminal landing.

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They warned me I’d encounter talent in college: my sophomore roommate could burp the alphabet and squeeze his farts into laughter.

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An industrious woodpecker taps out syncopation to the car stereo piano while windshield sleet drops provide a wintry counterpoint.

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13° F and the view is a fuzzy steel gray, as if a great exhalation hangs over the yard. I rub both eyes. Cataract check: negative.

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He’s tweeting to find out if any of his followers are among the thirty or so in attendance. They’re watching him. His head’s down.

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Asleep, she’s a champion mouser, home protector, rewarded with bottomless saucers of milk. Awake, she stumbles, blind, into walls.

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