Porch-sniffers, bell-dingers— we say Come on in! & push into your front room. You trip backwards through the doorway. Then we open up the fire-breathing briefcase, start to betray things to the light: a tic-tac-toe board, a pair of hens, the fat-bottom pot of boiling corn. Soon after, lovingly, the many smaller briefcases. The small fantasies. The ointments. The same fires always. Because you will never know this kind of need till you try. We make a display of the display, juggle bruised oranges, shake thunder from a piece of tin. The hens play X’s & O’s for keeps. Because this is our ailment: we cannot help it if you look starved. We sell you the selling. We cannot help it: we already bought this entire hunger.

Evan Nicholls is from the peach, fox, horse and wine country of Fauquier County, Virginia. He has work appearing or forthcoming in Hobart, DIAGRAM, and Third Coast, among others. He tweets at @nicholls_evan.