No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
At bedtime, during stay-overs, Listerine became gin Bathroom doors stayed locked as we kept our mouths full Pretended to savor the taste of liquor The sink counter, our night-time bar and place Where we picked up our men.
They’re angry at having to deal with this, at their sons being young and destructive and stupid enough to get caught.
His one-time girlfriend Leyla Santiago stood in the misting rain with Dr. Nancy from the Best Pal Clinic. The two of them wore face coverings, and he had the car windows up, so everything they said was like mock, mock, mock. A little while ago, one of the vet techs took inside the carrier holding Leyla’s cat, Darla. She might’ve been around sixteen years old and weighed 4 ½ pounds.
Some of David Means’ stories are worth their own book club meeting.
How can you live and leave in a breath as the door closes
She asked if she could show him something on her phone and moved over to sit next to him. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with wisps of her red hair touching his shoulder, or her light green jeans rubbing against his black ones as she made herself comfortable in the booth.
It was an image of one her paintings, a portrait of a middle-aged Black woman on a park bench. It looked like late afternoon – the subject cast a long shadow on an asphalt walkway. The woman’s expression seemed to show both strength and sadness; weariness and defiance.