My mind spun like the flywheel on an antique John Deere, merry-go-round during second-grade recess, hard spun roulette wheel.

Dennis Vickers

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gleaming like a searchlight, Iowa moon, silver plate.

— Dennis Vickers

Gasps erupted from his nostrils like grouse from a thicket, schoolboys onto a recess yard, grease spatters from frying bacon.

— Dennis Vickers

Hung in the air like fart gas in an elevator, insecurity in a prom ballroom, guilt around a police lineup.

— Dennis Vickers

Whacked away under the desk like hail on a barn roof.

— Dennis Vickers

Poetry comes out of you like a pot of oatmeal boiling over.

— Dennis Vickers