Poems by Brian Builta

Mail

A month after mama died and was safely locked in her ashy slot, cards began to arrive from her old address…
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Lonely

One wonders what is happening with our girls, so young to throng to counselors, so beautiful in flight.
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Directions from a Friendly Local

Go down where the dilapidated chair leans against the man made of mufflers and hang a right, right before Lisa’s Chicken.
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Her Magnolia

Last spring mama counted sixty-two blossoms on the tree outside her window…
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Pat Murphy’s Auto Service

You go in for a brake squeak and the catastrophic fizz begins…
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Finicky

No to the gobsmacked buffoon who kept raining on us. No to the peach pit stuck in the ant hill hole.
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