Prose Poem dedicated to New York Times Editor Pui Wing Tam. (With mail art haiku.)

 



Prose poem:  Foozle.


My best friend, Crazy Henry, took me aside one morning, while we were at the paintball store.


“You’ve got to stop using it” he told me.


“Using what?” I asked him.


“The word ‘foozle’” he said tensely. “People are beginning to talk.”


“So let ‘em talk” I said aggressively. “I’m not afraid of what people think.  Let them go . . . go . . . go foozle themselves!”


He shook his head and walked out of the store. Into the raging sandstorm that suddenly developed and destroyed half the industry in town.

We began to starve, my family and I. No work. Boxed cereal full of sand fleas. The house ready to cave in from erosion. It was a mess.


But then Crazy Henry showed up with a big box of batteries and a gallon of Yoohoo chocolate drink.


“You’ve saved us!” I exclaimed. My children gathered around him to nuzzle his dusty knees.


And I never used the word ‘foozle’ again . . . 

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