Gravy

Flooding the basement with turkey gravy is just the beginning, though it took 26 hours to prepare all that gravy and I haven’t gotten any sleep since starting the process. The gravy needs to at least come up to your shins, or it can’t be called a legitimate flood. I’ve decided against trying to float on my back in the stuff, I don’t need my whole body drenched with a substance that brings to mind those old elementary school turkey lunches at the beginning of the week of Thanksgiving, with potatoes and canned green beans, maybe a piece of droopy pumpkin pie. Once the taste for flooding has been satisfied, digging a hole to China in the backyard is a logical next step. All the cartoons from my youth assured me that it’s possible, and I won’t rest until I burrow through the core of the planet–though more than likely I’ll run out of energy and pass out after I’ve dug about 20 feet down.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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