by John Dorroh
“Form Follows Function”
I want you to taste my eggroll
take it in slowly, deliberately and
appreciate the time and effort that
it took to prepare. All that cabbage to chop
and shrimp and chicken pieces and teeny-weeny
chunks of carrots, sprouts and secret spices;
rolling the wrapper
forming the folds just right sort of tight
and something to make it wet so it will
maintain integrity. I smile when the wrapper
sticks just right like a spirit glue.
I like the art. Not just the design.
“There are No Common Things”
The brown owl is perched in the gnarled pine,
highest branch from the snow-covered ground,
its round face that looks so much like the boy
next door. Bunnies are plentiful, their quick back
legs kicking up snow dust into the cold air. If only
they knew what perils their innocence might cast.
The metal fish climb the side of the barn, heads, gills
favoring north, at least until spring when the crocus
flowers give way to sweet onions and delicate shoots
of asparagus. There are no common things, only
beautiful and precious gifts and offerings, even the
late freeze that will whither and brown the petals
that have already bloomed and started summer fruit.
There are wonderful and miraculous organisms out
in the compost bin—worms and black beetles with
red dots on their backs, red bugs with black eyes
that glisten like diamonds, baby frogs and lizards
that dart into the hole in a brick that you meant
to remove in the fall. There are unidentified seeds
and tiny bugs in the air, floating and flying, claiming
space for a fraction of a second, winter’s brown grass
turning green, the moles having created cities of hills,
that must be negotiated with careful planning. The dogs
are drunk with excitement, unable to contain themselves,
barking, digging, wagging their paint-brush tails high
in the cool blue air, tugging on their leashes with might
and determination. Their paws are trowels, digging, digging,
tossing dirt into the air, the space between their paws
soaking up earth like a sponge. It’s as though they know
that these things have replicated themselves since the moment
the planet began to spin on its own; that they are merely
willing participants in this waterfall of seconds and minutes,
fractals oozing into the spaces that make us all part of the parade.
John Dorroh, “J.D.,” taught high school science for almost 30 years and lived to tell about it. He is a writer who has had some success with White Trash Nekid poetry, micro-fiction, and poetry. He has also written for a regional newspaper as a weekly business columnist. He lost the county spelling bee in the 6th grade to Connie Dick and went on to become a recognized swimmer and Moon Pie-eating contestant. John’s work is included in the recently released Fifth Issue of Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art.
