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Tag Archives: Al Ortolani
and I blame it on World War II. My kids treat their dogs like children, taking them to sitters or doggie hotels when they’re out of town. They hire a girl to walk them and to pick up their shit … Continue reading
In every phone call with my mother there comes a point when dialogue narrows to monologue, and she insists that she’d be better off dead than at the assisted living. Usually, I change the subject to some cheerful antic of … Continue reading
They find each other waiting in lines for prescription refills and begin to speak of ailments. Nothing clicks like it once did. There are no flashing lights or musical accompaniments. They realize that more time is needed, more time for … Continue reading
Mother is awake, unable to sleep without Ambien. She rises from bed and walks the house, pausing at the back door to watch the storm sweep the patio, and then at the front door to see if her stone retaining … Continue reading
A dozen cranes stand in flood waters. They are as stoic as statues. Even the eighteen-wheelers roaring down the highway do not disturb their quiet. The berm of the road cuts the water—drivers with deadlines, hauling fast food, livestock, refrigerated … Continue reading
Some days I want to write my last poem. one that will manifest the controlling image of my future silence. It will have to say it all—like the way a branch bends with the weight of a bird, and then … Continue reading