The day Dad tries to
burn our house down
with us in it, my excited
brother is yelling, “Fire!”
as I run downstairs into
cloud of smoke billowing
from open oven door
where Dad’s cream puffs
combust, ashes to ashes,
because he doubled butter.
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Lisa hosts “puff” quadrilles (44 words) at dVerse poets pub…
a poem in my pocket 