Outside, the still of crickets. Inside, petals of a cold sore foliate,

When I was eight I jumped off a roof as if I had a parachute and broke a leg. He was there when I landed,

Every day the same play. The moment I rise, the first act begins, the same plot

He should have married someone, James tells himself at 80 coughing in bed with the flu. He remembers very well that Miranda was a nice girl.

She was about the doing not about applause canning tomatoes in summer baking pies in fall quilting winter away

Ruth’s at an age where she’s happy to sit in the sun under a patio umbrella and watch a line of ants

In a long marriage couples communicate in so many ways, often in silence. In recent years I rise very early and now leave post-it notes

Fred jerks back in his recliner as his wife puts him on the spot and asks his opinion about a dress she bought on sale at a fancy place for a great price…

“Quiet, please,” I tell her, “I want to hear the music.” She is sitting next to me again, this time on a paisley couch, a woman in a lime bikini I met

He slaughters his hamburger steak with a fork and a butter knife, massacres ringlets of onions again and again thumps catsup all over

It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for one who is rich to enter the kingdom of God, Jesus told his disciples.

What if your parents had never met had never married had never yelled at each other

I’m on my way to Larry’s Place, a food pantry in the city. I park a block away because parking in front of Larry’s isn’t wise even if one drives

America has no caste system but America has castes. Like every other nation America has its rich and poor with everyone else sardined