He had a diploma. He had ideas. He had time on his hands. He started a blog.He had the knack. He followed the conversations. He enjoyed the process. He wrote strong entries with weak headlines. It was ... [+]
Originally published in The Germ, 2014
He lost his second wife in Buffalo.She hid behind his books and slipped awayon their due date. Libraries are safe—dustholds warmth. It smells like powdered hands. She curledunder some shelves and stayed. He had to go—anywhere. Two yellow lines knew his name.He loved spilled gas, new tar. Some arctic gustChased him through a door. He followed a world.She lives on paper now. Her dreams are sadbut pretty. His eyes only squint at signs.He never wonders. She thinks that's too badbut flips her page. For now, distance exciteshim like flame. She knows that her pictures will fadequick as brittle paper,