The Firebug Finds Love
If they made a sulfur scented aftershave,
I’d rock it. But I seldom need to shave.
The man next door hides behind a beard.
He sneaks outside to smoke cigarettes,
an occasional cigar, puffed to the nub
and gathered in a plastic solo cup.
He sniffs the air as if he might sense me
behind the window’s shade.
My earliest memory was playing
in the fire pit on camping trips;
trapping beetles between the red hot logs
until they sizzled, popped. I’
The first of the two following poems was nominated by WINK: Writers in the Know for the 2018 Pushcart Prize: The Morning of My Death For it most certainly will be morning,
someone forgets to shut the front door.
The dog wanders out and away
and is forgotten, adopted
by a family with eight children–
one more mouth doesn’t matter.
The door comes unhinged. How many times
did I take a hammer and whack the damn thing
back into place? The house too is falling apart.
Most of you are familiar with the prestigious Pushcart Prize. If not, please go here to learn more (http://www.pushcartprize.com). It is our honor to nominate Jim Zola of Greensboro, North Carolina, for his poem, The Morning of My Death, which appeared in issue 2 of WINK: Writers in the Know magazine. This is something any writer can proudly mention and add to their writer's resume regardless of whether or not they win the prize. To be "nominated for a Pushcart Prize" is an