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i was watching wheel          cash         prizes        won         lost          won again          after each spin           cars           trips           jewelry           gleaming lights             cheering contestants

 

 

one more spin, pat!

    

i need that car!

i want that trip!

 

just one more spin!

 

i'd like to buy a vowel, pat!

 

 

gripping the wheel           they’d spin         spin          spin         again          spin          this time would be different          they were sure of it           if they could just take           one         more         spin         i fondled the chipped mug in my hand           a super-glued memento of my granddaddy          stained by years of store-brand coffee               always bought from winn-dixie down the street

 

 

are there any Ts, pat?

 

 

my last memory of my grandaddy             that tiny house            lying in bed            oxygen tubes shoved into his nostrils           smoke from slender menthols wafting through his silver hair          he was reading the gaffney ledger              trying  to pretend nothing was wrong             trying to pretend everything was okay             trying to pretend            this scene wouldn’t be our last

 

⌈C⌉ ⌈U⌉ ⌈T⌉ ⌈G⌉ ⌈R⌉ ⌈E⌉ ⌈E⌉ ⌈N⌉

⌈B⌉ ⌈E⌉ ⌈A⌉ ⌈N⌉ ⌈S⌉

 

the ghost shouted           solving the puzzle           from her worn           still cozy           lazy-boy           she rocked          back        forth         back         forth         back         forth         springs screeching            each thrust of a bare             ghost foot             drawing dust             from the threadbare floor

 

 

what about an R, pat?

 

 

ghost grandma watched the fuzzy tv                rapt attention             to each black letter           vanna blinked into existence               she played along             like all those other nights           in that tiny house          crunching cheetos          licking orange powder        from bony fingers              ignoring crumbs            that showered the lap  of her floral            flannel nightgown

 

 

i’d like to solve, pat!

 

 

during a commercial for bojangle’s buttermilk biscuits             ghost grandma turned to me like real grandma did last time we were here         before i left         when she told me it was okay                       when she told me she was feeling  better           now her upcountry drawl melts her ghost mouth           i tell her i’m not leaving          tell her i’m going to miss her          she offers the king‑sized bag

 

⌈G⌉ ⌈E⌉ ⌈T⌉ ⌈A⌉

⌈P⌉ ⌈A⌉ ⌈P⌉ ⌈E⌉ ⌈R⌉ ⌈P⌉ ⌈L⌉ ⌈A⌉ ⌈T⌉ ⌈E⌉

⌈B⌉ ⌈U⌉ ⌈B⌉ ⌈B⌉ ⌈A⌉

     



Steve is an old metalhead studying art history and creative writing at the University of North Carolina Asheville. His classmates and professors are kind and encouraging, and his band hasn’t kicked him out yet for always trying to turn his poems into song lyrics.
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