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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 12, Number 3, September 2018

Guy Simser
Kanata, Ontario, Canada


Thunder clouds—
under the umbrella’s WHUMP!
a damp draught

With impending rain, the evening’s war poetry reading was quickly moved from the park bandstand into a nearby Gothic Revival church. One after the other, humid sliding bums polished the oak pews. The M.C., a stammering Quaker, began by avowing with careful elocution, as if we may not understand his Cambridge roots, that he was indeed a part-time poet himself and would happily read just two of his own poems before introducing the talented local poets. As reverberations of “his own” floated down the nave, he tediously fumbled through his notes. On the pew ahead of me during this awkward moment sat a tiny, elderly Silver Cross Mother. So far unnoticed but for a hint of wartime Eau de Cologne, she tilted slightly to her right and raised the left shoulder of her classic serge suit. Thus poised, her neck slowly tightened as she broadcast at length a most languorous fart.



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