by Roy Jacobstein
Must be another whitewashed wafer’s
slithered through the slot of the celestial
jukebox: a drachma or piastre or shekel,
coin of the realm in some sere yet ever-
inhabited ancient land.
by Mark Catalano
Ted stands at the end of the dining room table. He is deep into his project, the making of a doll from old black socks, some scraps of green felt, and cotton balls for stuffing. All his idea. He has a cigar butt in the side of his mouth and ash down the front of his T-shirt. He is elated. He has never sewn a thing, ever, and the black doll, smeared with ash, is almost finished. He thinks it is perfect. In a minute he will charge outside with his creation and show his sisters, who are lying on the patio, sunbathing, and drinking Fresca.
by Julianne Buchsbaum
A dog lies at his feet as he looks into
his manual and says,
“A person reduced to his worst elements
makes a fascinating subject.”
by Thomas Rabbitt
So the town has found one drunk a proper house as well.
In Gilligans we shake our woozy heads. A house for him
To wreck and not pay rent, to burn the doors and floors
Against the coming winter’s cold. Just to ease our souls.
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