Poems by Brian Builta

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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D. C.

We drive Texas, Arkansas, Tennesse and Virginia to deposit you in your new life
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Two Monks

two monks walk a muddy road
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O, Citalopram

Thanks to you my meathead is better than it was but not as good as it used to be.
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