|
Louisa Howerow |
|
Uncle Guido At the end of the day, Uncle Guido sat on the front porch, the first two buttons on his white shirt undone, sleeves rolled up; smoked a large Cuban cigar and opened his mouth in a large O to blow smoke rings for us to catch, but we were too slow, and they broke away too fast, and when we tired of the game we watched the rings float across our neighbor's fence to settle in her honeysuckle vines In the Autumn of Her Discontent In the Paradise Motel rooms five dollars a night, she lies on her back like a dung beetle flipped over on rotted leaves; limbs jerk, body rocks, tries to right herself |