Through the nursery glass Carlos Montero peeks at Consuela, his twelfth, in the arms of a nurs… Pink as a peony with brilliant black hair,

Jill’s assignment as a new reporter was to interview an old bell ringer standing next to a red kettle outside a Walmart. Her editor had told her the man has been ringing the bell every ...

Let’s not worry about it, Dearie, life gets better, life gets worse. We’re no different than the seasons of the year except we’re luckier than most having

The kitchens of Auschwitz are belching again. Ancient chefs, puffed hats askew, storm once more

So this Mick on the next stool, who’s as serious as Yeats but looks like Wilde, stares at me, with eyes crossed,

The teacher tells the third grade the order of the seasons cannot be changed. Summer, fall, winter, spring arrive in order, then start over.

Praise for Him coming from us is like the bark of a terrier at the foot of his master

Middle of the night someone’s in the house. Can’t be the wife asleep next to you. She’ll be mad

Better take his wife to lunch after what he said yesterday. A slip of the tongue. But where to take her? The Chinese buffet?

The mug of tea I drank at dawn, the tea that drove me to the train needs a refill.

Two grackles, black birds shiny and iridescent, nest again this year high and deep in our tall spruce.

We worry so much because we’re nice people. We want to find a way to feed the poor house the poor

Decades ago a small college out in the boondocks put Ambrose, a freshman, on a Greyhound Bus to attend a student convention in New York.