by Martin Seay
He’ll talk to the girl in the orange knit cap, standing by the Veronese. He won’t look at her at first. He’ll flip to a fresh page in his sketchbook, he’ll glide across the room—his eyes fixed on the painting, drifting close to her, but not too close—and after a moment, he’ll begin to draw.
by Billy Collins
Everyone has two birthdays
according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,
the day you were born and New Year’s Day—
a droll observation to mull over
as I wait for the tea water to boil in a kitchen . . .
by G. C. Waldrep
At the singing someone handed me a pear and said
“Feed it.” There was a little mouth drawn on the flank
of the pear, but no nose, no eyes, no ears.
I had no idea what a pear would eat.
I tried carrot sticks. I tried a packet of sugar
from the fellowship hall. The pear remained oblique . . .
by Robert Polito
Earlier that evening, in one of those flukes that promise more
than the moment can deliver, we ran into the Pogues, at least some of them,
across the street at Fenway Park. The Red Sox were playing the Toronto Blue
Jays. With nothing to do until the show started, we purchased cheap bleacher
seats and climbed the stairs behind center field. Suddenly up ahead loomed a
quartet attired like us, despite the season, in dark wool duds: Spider, Cait,
and (I’m almost certain) James, alongside a dour manager/driver/minder type.
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