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It’s not just the mailman. It’s the logo on the mailbox down the street. It’s the uniform. It’s any man or woman in the whole unsettling profession.
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“I spent the best years of my life raising you, and now that you've grown, I never hear from you.” Sound familiar? That's the “Mom's Lament.” Mothers have been kvetching at their grown-up kids like this since the beginning of…
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The little dog. The mean little dog. The mean little dog the girl you love loves. The mean little dog the girl you love loves is growling at you again.
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i.More and more, for Megan LeMaster, each beginning was its own end. She couldn't bear to buy flowers or dresses that seemed too beautiful. Friendships formed, endured, gave out in a handshake. Each deed in life had an immediate, inescapable…
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98051
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1. Research how to locate and outline the chin of a toy terrier. Find a toy terrier, outline its chin, then count the hairs on said chin to determine the number of lines your poem will have.
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Opportunity, says Webster, is a, "favorable juncture of circumstances." In my Oxford book of quotations, there are seven famous lines about opportunity. Seven – that’s it! There are twenty-seven regarding failure. Seems it's been easier for the great
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One morning she was out on her walk and happened to come near the creek. Amazed as she was by the landscape, she was unprepared for the creek to look dark. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the trees budding and yet below, in the water, it seemed dar
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noses to the ground, snuffling
following criss-crossed footprints of deer and rabbits
we stop at the edge and stand in silence
listening
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today on the bus/ a man in his fifties/ smiled at a baby/
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The dog was there before Vera was there, so she supposed she couldn't hate it too much. It wasn't like she had to live with the thing, either, though she might as well have hosted it in her ear for the eight months it took that particular batch of neighbo
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The field opens up to us like something born.
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One evening I came home late from work to find my wife drinking white Zinfandel by the fireplace in the living room and reading Wallace Stevens poems out loud to the dog, curled at her feet.
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My ghost has already been places I'll never see.
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We hold fast to the bed’s corners, afraid our bodies, these new old bodies, have forgotten how to love in its center.
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When I left, Phil dropped to his knees and grabbed my ankles with his hands. His face was red and ugly from crying. “Wait!” he kept saying. “Let’s just talk for a minute!” But we’d already talked. We’d talked and talked and talked. The only thing left to
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