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

It’s war plain and simple when I fill the feeder out in the sycamore with millet and niger

It used to bother me to see odd people leapfrog parking meters and shout every day is Halloween until

You were gone when I got home at midnight from a double shift. Now you’re back,

We write the stories of our lives between the bookends of birth and death They stay on the shelf

After services on Sunday the old Marlboro man puts his Bible under his arm and talks to his pastor through a hole in his neck.

You can learn a lot, both true and false, in a dingy all-night diner where old men gather at a table in back

Evil without we worry about but not so much evil within, parent to evil without. Evil within, once called sin,

This black moth flew in the front door of the living room the other night and has been up

They’re widows, old and gray, bent over a quilting frame, sewing to meet a deadline for the next raffle

Don’t recall meeting a human being at the megastore staffed by robots in the flesh

We see stories on the internet that are simply fake news, many of them malicious as well. It’s hard to tell the difference but a single sentence found

I was out of control, spinning on the whirligig of youth, giddy to be caught in what Kerouac called “the whole mad swirl

The others, of course, are more ra… but less apt to show it. Whenever I strike, I never romp o… I stand with the wrist that I’ve… from the lady locked in my teeth

Around his navel this morning a halo, a red stipple Hopkins would love: “Glory be to God for dappled thin… It’s a gift from this woman