On 'Wild Flowers Out of Gas'

Joe Ceravolo’s poems are like the old lady who helps a boy scout across the busy street. They are also like the truck driver who stops his truck to let them cross safely, toots his horn and waves. They are also like the nickel in the boy scout’s pocket that was not bent by being run over by the truck.

Previously published in Kulchur 5, no. 18 (Summer 1965): 105.