Sketch: Volume 31, Issue 3
My brother was waiting for me outside the courthouse at 5:00. He leaned across the seat and opened the car door for me. "Hi, Cynthia, do you have enough books there?" he laughed...
Dear Father: I am tired. I walk the streets from here to there with a weight on my soles that is dragging me into the earth. I wonder why the people can not see what my shoulders carry, the mass that makes me tired at the end of a day when I have done nothing.
I now, in last reflection, scuff the stone And pause in vesper quiet above the sand, For soon I set my sail beyond the strand; This sullen heart to search a milder zone, A distant shore, a place to pain unknown...