Velveeta sun on the horizon, all smeared-out sliding gold. Reminds me of Dad, who melted away. Hey Dad, are you eating Velveeta right now? I don’t think so. Some type of giant rodent crosses the courtyard and shakes its head slowly. The drinks are weak. The seagulls nosy. The pineapple, neither apple nor pine. The ocean is the ocean and the breeze will not stop blowing. Look at my windbreaker, tourist yellow. The same yellow found boiling in glass tubes, Monroe, New York, 1918. Emil Frey is inventing Velveeta! Sweet odors of turnip oil, saffron, minced copper, sweat. Sweet whisper of a Bunsen burner. The frogs are incredibly loud here, Dad. It feels like they are squatting inside my head. They screech yeell-ow, yeell-ow. The streetlight smudge. Coughing taxicab. Emil walks his way home. Stops for his customary two drinks. Shakes salt into the beer. Drops by the five-and-dime for oranges. (He still can’t get over the oranges.) Buys an orange and a thimble and a tinned ham. Pauses in the hissing snow. Turns back to get the yo-yo.
Sean Lovelace’s bio appears with his story, “Velveeta Review.”