by Amy Leach
“To whom, then, does the earth belong?” said the dragon as he was being slain. “Sometimes it seems to belong to dragons; at other times to dragon gaggers. Sometimes it seems to belong to the hot harmattan wind . . . then to the descuernadragones, the wind that dehorns dragons . . . and then to the doldrums. Sometimes it seems to belong to the slaves, when the sea parts to let them through, and sometimes to the sea when the sea does not part.
by Paul Zimmer
I’ve given the slip to those creeps in the geezer asylum across the road and tip-toed out the emergency exit when they thought I was taking a nap. It’s Friday evening in Squires Grove, and Burkhum’s Tap is crowding. I’ve staked myself out early at the bar and had a few Leinenkugels.
by Billy Collins
I don’t want to make too much of this,
but because the bedroom faces east
across a lake here in Florida, . . .
by Arthur Vogelsang
The motel whistler whistled
All our afternoon nap,
But on we slept. He
Whistled after we woke, having whistled
Days before our arrival, so the legend goes.
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