Writer’s Island

We sat on that corner and argued the politics of rye & ginger, too broke for breakfast. We knew the park’s damp pillow after a lo...

Like a lot of kids growing up during the 1960s, I was raised on roller derby. Saturday afternoons found me glued to the TV, cheering on o...

Bless his half-empty head, his hand that held the Phillips screwdriver he lost in my yard behind the hedge. Bless the way he topped th...

I have stumbled onto a mystery. It’s been building and building for years, until now I just feel that something’s afoot, something’s wrong ...

The birds have all traded places. The seagulls, bent kites veering toward the hills, are strangers. The sea is closer. Robins sway wet ...

He came home to two martinis and Art Buchwald out loud in his black bucket chair, steam creeping out the kitchen door. By dinner he’d ro...

Earlier this month, just after I’d chided the editors of Rattle a bit for choosing so many long, narrative poems as finalists for their $5...