old man’s eyes flatline over winter drifts in empty aspen grove.
Snow sifting through thorns:: old couple:: no need to speak of odor of roses.
Once, back in the day a skinny, flat chester had rammed her knee into his crouch. That had hindered things.
They wheel him out doors, lock wheels. The old dog brings a stick. He heaves it from his seat— a wheelchair in wanlight— Sun through empty branches. Days past he’d fetch the stick again. He leans down, strokes the wiry nape— Posted in response to Ragtag Community Word of the Day play.
“Lon?” Vera called. She craned her head and spoke into the rest of the house. She listened. “Lon, Eddie's here.” She cocked her head and listened again. She was a thin, tall woman with kind, brown eyes, and she always seemed to be smiling. Eddie believed it was genuine, but he wondered how she kept … Continue reading Not Getting Older is Not in the Contract
Summer’s gone when poems lilted fibber tunes of one thing for another— self-wallows under willow-leaf— shaded frog-croak water— when bright little singings— liar airs clotting even water— enfulled a fool. Now, nothing left but winter— water songs sing ice— voiceless noise under leaf-lack willow shade. Winds shriek no name. Deplete There are several versions of … Continue reading When Poems Lilted
There were three doors for old Maddy Wilsawl to choose from, and all three of them exited into territories his seventy-five years had not prepared him for. Actually, he thought, there wasn’t much choice. He had come in one of them. Beyond it was a country in which cars drove themselves, people hired thieves to … Continue reading That Last Door is a Killer