Let’s get red wine, forget about the rest,
except be kind to strangers lest they be
angels in disguise. Oh holy bookstore
I slept in a rug on your floor
in December 1996, beer and poems
Brian McKenna slowly counted a dozen roses in the crystal vase atop the now empty office desk. Their crimson color gave him a sense of comfort, like a red beacon marking a return to a sheltered harbor.
Wild turkeys, dull brown and nondescript except for their bizarre prehistoric configuration, strange bulk, unexpected arrival, walk presumptuously up the long driveway toward the house. The sun is...
“If we miss the boat, goddammit, it’s your fault,” warned Dad as he floored the pedal of his prized ’55 Buick convertible to 70 in the slow zone known as a speed trap. It was the final stretch of the...