They’re usually poor people, sometimes considered the flotsam of society, always in the way at the grocery store,

Inseparable they are, landing one after another on the ground under the bird feeder two mourning doves

For years leprechauns lived under Pop’s fedora. They danced jigs on his head when he wore it and hid in his ears

Sarah makes sandwiches all day, piling meat and trimmings high on pillowy bread she spreads apart before her customers’ eyes. Hardworking men love her sandwiche…

Inferno of a summer day Mother’s dozing Tommy, tiny, three, paring knife in hand tiptoes out, flops

Old Tim writes poetry now in his heaven of retirement. He’s had nice jobs over the years but swears retirement is better.

Magnificent animal Harambe, the Silverback gorilla killed at t… Lovely child, the three-year-old w… jumped in Harambe’s den. The mother took her son to the zoo

You take care now, Harold, and don’t slip on the ice looking for a good bookstore on the streets of Chicago. Print is dead, Harold,

You’re an old man in a nice suit and tie out with your wife at a fancy function with nice people

“Screw the Vernal Equinox” is all Cootie Kelly ever says sitting triumphant with his foaming glass of Guinness on the last stool at Maggie’s

Willie in his 80s now hadn’t made sense in years. His wife understood his grunts from the recliner where she propped him up

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

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

Like that broad in an apricot bra hanging over the sill of her tenement window, the sun is over me now, its nectar laughing and falling.