when the light aircraft crashed in the driveway
out pops the egg shaped pilot
a zucchini smashed into his holster
canned peas and carrots bulge from pockets in his jodhpurs
his Doc Martens knee deep in mismatched pumpkins
he doesn't knock before entering
he is tracking pumpkin interstices across my pristine nylon rug
walks right to my glass case containing the taxidermy moose
and says 'guilty, guilty, guilty'
"of what?" I say
"that was here when we bought the unit"
I say, my voice going up four octaves
bubbles forming in my coffee
my significant other already taking sides
the children we traded stamps for
eager to hear the pilot story
he stood silent
I lost my nerve
"so what if we are having fried squirrel for breakfast"
I was almost begging forgiveness
the family was too eager
to rat out all our secrets
the intruder entirely compelling
Bruce Reisner is a 63 y/o artist/writer living in the Pittsburgh North Hills, where daily life is like a page from a William Faulkner novel. His work has been seen in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, and in a number of online lit magazines.