poems
The Collector
I see Larry most every day, if the weather’s OK, and I walk my normal route. For years I only knew him as the short squat man in faded t-shirt and suspenders walking a small brown dog down Bedford. Once, I was summoned: Excuse me! in a gravelly New York whine. Could you pick that […]
At Home He Feels Like a Tourist
We pass each other with open books. Me, because I know these streets all too well. She, because she doesn’t, not at all.
After-Hours Book Club
Quarter to two Wednesday night Wait half done for the next train home. Eyes that have seen enough today scan a ragged paperback open on my lap. Is that a good book? asks the girl next to me on the aluminum bench underground. It is, I say, closing it shut. I turn toward her: This […]
Jack Silbert, curator