Hopper — Gas — 1940

by Brian Bruso

Passing over the archaic Bourne bridge as the autumn shoulder season slips into mulled cider and leaf filled barrels ablaze. Buzzards Bay, dark before seven, dusk cracking open cottage pies, spinsters cobbling blueberry buckles ‘in fashion’. Hugo’s serendipitous melancholy soothing a night- cap hot toddy. Seabird cackles keeping steady rhythm for the wooden spoon smacking polenta against pot sides. Cheddar grated over top, maybe an egg, dippy to be fancy. Hawkish cattywampus of pigeons lilting forlorn, devoid of any true anachronism. No Particular

Place To Go wrangled into E minor then cantered down to a trot. Lollygags and slipstreams consciously writhing beneath the promontory, left to whistle windswept dune stabilization. Sandbreaks woven strategically so that the imagined grandchildren Jo and her grasshopper never attempted could bounce through Marram grass and glacial moraine.

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Brian Bruso has been writing all his life. Originally all poetry until he found himself deeply entrenched in the culinary world. Twenty plus years of menu writing continued to hone his creative skills until he was no longer able to perform. He has now turned back to poetry (and the occasional flash) and re-devoted his passion by joining Maya Popa’s Conscious Writers Collective. Brian has been published in Rathalla, Burningwords, Levitate, and most recently in Hibiscus Magazine.