
NAKED STEW by Michael Graves
Today is Saturday, another date with my kitchen floor. While Gram’s famous hot dog stew simmers, I admire the double-mopped laminate that has already been host to four veteran potlucks. Kurt’s pickup bleats, turning into the driveway. Spears of oak and birch fill the sagging bed. Kurt sees me at the screen door and side grins, his cauliflower ears pink from the chill. “Floors are dry,” I holler. He almost tumbles from the cab. “You sure? Want me to drive around the block a few times like last week?” “Just don’t get shit all over. Please? You’re covered in…