The guillotine dropped between you and a friend over coffee and small talk. The first time it dropped it was someone who said

They’re in the kitchen, drinking coffee, the kids, in their fifties now, figuring out what to do about Dad who’s

Anyone might have what you need if she’s choice in your eye. She can be big or small provided she has

You find old poems in the attic in a box with the Remington Rand you wrote them on in the Sixties before computers were born. They were published then in little

Months roar by like weeks and weeks disappear like days, two coots in a bar admit on New Year’s Eve, reminiscing over a beer

Elmer’s an old stag now shedding antlers snorting among the trees but sometimes Martha after her shower

Maury’s wife frets about growing old withering up and sagging so it’s up to Maury

Someday you’ll be in bed dying like I am now and people you love and some you don’t will come by to say good-bye. They don’t know what to say because we’re all amat…

Paul’s not a veteran of Vietnam but he goes there in his dreams to watch his brother Tim walk in hazy streams sprayed with Agent Orange before he

When you were a boy in 1948 living on a block of bungalows in Chicago right after WWII you had a red wagon you pulled behind your mother

This Monarch butterfly dances from petal to petal red, yellow and orange sits for a while on each and then

A corner sentinel for 40 years, Charlie’s Diner is the only landmark in a neighborhood of blue-collar people who love their burgers thick

And so I’ll tell old Max, and maybe he will listen, it’s time to call the plumber in and tell him,

Millicent was the daughter who danced ballet and sang until she met Butchie on a rainy day. He was in coveralls and cowboy hat and fixed