by Cynthia Dockrell
Dad is still next to the phone, looking at the place where Mom was just standing. Normally he would follow her into the other room and say something like, “Now wait just a goddamn minute,” but nothing has been normal lately. Instead he turns to me—I have been setting the table with the good silver and linen—and raises his eyebrows. I almost feel sorry for him. . . .
by Micah Nathan
Ben first met Charlie Cahill on the train to New York. Charlie was reading a collection of Hemingway stories; he wore a wrinkled suit that showed too much sock, and he gorged himself on a hot dog, oblivious to the ketchup that dripped down his tie. Behind Charlie sat a young mother with her crying child. After ten minutes of wails and screeches, Charlie turned around, dangled his keys, and grinned.
“When the Boy Arrives with a Telegram for John Berryman, Berryman Turns to His Student Phil Levine and Asks, ‘Are You John Berryman?’ ”
by Amy Newman
When the boy arrives with a telegram for John Berryman,
Berryman turns to his student Phil Levine and asks,
“Are you John Berryman?”
“No,” says Levine. “Then I must be,” says Berryman . . .
by Nance Van Winckel
But he was a stranger, the album of his
life 30 percent off. I stood considering the price,
and to the one who’s just said he’s sorry
he didn’t realize I was real, I shrug.
No problem. No matter.
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