A Poem by Jeannette Marie Sayers
I paddle
through a pool
of honeymoons
while second-honeymooners
waltz through
the Jewish ghetto.
From the daily archives:
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
There’s an Irish pub in Boston called the Crossroads. It’s the type of place that, five years after the ban, still smells of cigarette smoke. Come winter, regulars hibernate on crooked stools; the lights stay low and the door firmly shut. But spring flips the door open and brightens up the place. The incoming wind scatters napkins and resilient smokers rejoice on sidewalks, thanking God for winter’s passing.
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A Short Story by Joe Clifford
When my father was getting ready to die last year, he made me promise to look after Madeline, his new wife. At the time it seemed like a simple promise. They’d met over canasta at the Sunny Gates trailer park down in Sunnyvale, six months before he was diagnosed with brain cancer. Although I hadn’t gotten the chance to know her that well, Madeline seemed pleasant enough, even if she wasn’t exactly Dad’s type.
