5 A story is a locked casket until it isn't. Translation: Even between men, there is the persistence of talk on long afternoons: father and his friend with the Spanish surname that meant snow or white or without blemish; smoky cigar smells and damp curtains. What could be so important that it took hours to pour out of their mouths? Sometimes they forgot about me. I sank into the dark brown leather chair in the corner and pulled books from the shelves.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.