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We were at the party With your friends from work, Nice enough people, But boring, As we agree. Someone said, “Nice shirt, Bill.” You replied, “Yeah, I got it Last month when I was in Miami.” When you said this, you avoided eye contact with me Or at least you did not look at me, maybe by accident, But I think on purpose. Of course, I was with you On the trip in question. So you might have said

I loved you before I was born And I will love you after I am gone. In between, we have our duties and responsibilities And joys and sorrows, and all the triumphs and trophies To celebrate for ourselves, and kith and kin. I gaze at the stars. They are very beautiful. So I think of you. The truth is that the memories Are like old handbills and popcorn sleeves Pressed in the clown’s scrapbook, Waiting for nothing

There you are, Teri Garr A dancer in a leotard, Keep the time, step on target, Frug with Elvis and Ann-Margret. Breathe the air, lift leg to bar. Fame so near, and yet so far. There you be, Teri G. With Sonny and Cher, on TV. Joe Namath at the laundromat. Freddie Prinze in a silly hat. Say your lines then step aside. Buy the ticket, take the ride. Acting lessons, anyone? Life is good, and life is fun. Who’s kis

  Jerry Herald had been the president of the company, but when our paths crossed his title was Vice President of Internal Corporate Communications and Blah Blah etc. etc. None of us knew exactly what Jerry Herald did all day, although he did seem to do a lot of it. He was always in the building, looking dapper in a three-piece business suit of a kind that no one else wore even in the 1990s. Rumor had it that Jer

With the encouragement and financing of my employer, the hospital, Twice a year I haul tail to a physicians’ convention. Usually I choose the thing for the gland and kidney crowd, Of which I am a member, but sometimes I’ll take in a Shindig for cardio or pulmonary or gerontology, Especially if it’s held someplace warm and fun, And with lots of direct flights. You’d think My husband would come

On the forgotten windowsill Glimpsing the heavens Through cloudy plastic Should only I bother To look up. We are saving pocket change For a new dishwasher Instead of repairing That old, broken-down thing. So for now I carry on dutifully With suds and towel At the sink. Once I danced And my heart beat proudly And I sang giddy tunes With my beloved in my arms As waves pounded the sandy beach In the moonlight. Shed no t

I met him at the book store in a long line at the checkout. He was talking about life and politics. I asked him a question that my mother had asked me, which she had heard on a quiz show, I think. “What was the first Beatles song,” I asked, “without the words I, me, mine, or you or your, or we or our, in the lyrics?” He thought for a moment, and then replied, “Eleanor Rigby,” which

During the cold winters we burn a lot of wood in the fireplace. One of my duties is to scoop the ashes and dump them into a hole in the far corner of the back yard. The other night I think of using the ashes to sculpt figurines, which even at the time I recognize to be a truly awful idea. Nevertheless I don old clothes and plastic gloves and my wife convinces me to wear a paper facemask, the kind used by painters to

The only thing that appeals to me about prison life is the last meal before the execution. The guards, pleased with the ritual, tell the condemned man to order any meal he wants, they will have it delivered. Liquor too? Maybe not, but I do not really know. I bet sometimes they smuggle in a cold beer. I suspect that most prisoners do not choose haute cuisine, which would lose its luster on death row. Instead I imagine