Edward Lineberry

Chattanooga Moon Pie

The Moon Pie General Store clerk packed

            the bag with careful skill

like tucked kittens in the corners

            of a kitty playhouse.

"I like it when it fits just so.

            Is that sad?" the clerk asked.

It's a store, so commerce is a given.

            The clerk was there -- he got

paid to be behind the counter.

            The detritus of the New

South: trinkets and fridge magnets

            culled from institutions

of the Old South, RC Cola,

            white supremacy,

and battle flags that will return

            or retreat with the course

of commerce. Lived history

            distilled through pipes of coin.

~

Welcome, San Diego Visitors!

Family arrives like an invading army.

Two allied nations and their mercurial

representatives charm our family

room. The cat flees and hides, only buttered

rolls or fried chicken can coax her

from her guerrilla compound. The atmosphere

stretches from peace to detente, and the side

door is opened; early Spring air fills

the house, new words float in, unspoken

ideas unformed. Trauma and food preferences

are launched by the combatants, circle

like unmanned drones, strike threats

without announcement, through the silence

they hum, and we try to keep talking

try to keep filling the room with soft

consequence, enough talk, enough food,

enough drink, and we may remember

that we are all in this together,

and together is a frugal fragment of now.

---

Edward Lineberry is a writer living in Atlanta. His poetry, fiction, and criticism have appeared in Atlanta Review, January House, Third Street Review, and elsewhere. You can find him online at elineberry.com.