Spitball Army

Dimes go in a sweetgrass basket; nickels in a glass jar. Now and then, there’s a nice meal out. Meanwhile, it’s noodles and Jell-O.

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30 years on, he disappointingly says to me: I was sure you’d’ve made at least a million by now. But I’d never told him I hadn’t.

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Retired, she now works afternoons at a hardware store, wheelchair-bound behind a register, emergency pennies tucked in her vest.

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“May I help you?” The old woman shuts her eyes, drops her head in sleep. Her friend hands me a 40W bulb: “Her lights are too dim.”

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The Tokyo residents begin migrating to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, fleeing the threat of nuclear fallout under a cloud of cruel irony.

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The Green Line runs under financial Boston; the Red Line pierces academia’s heart. There’s no Yellow here: no timidity or caution.

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Our big-city paper transforms the news into decidedly small-town titillations by portraying snarky online comments as headlines.

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Cities dot the state as Hail Marys on a rosary chain: St. Francis, St. James, The Angels, The Sacrament – Glory be! – St. Bernard.

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1890s growth: The Magic City. 1920s steel: Pittsburgh of the South. 1960s unrest: Bombingham. 2006 vagueness: The Diverse City.

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Cat bites my finger as I force-feed her meds. A month later, she dies. Today, I notice the bruise under my nail, moving up and on.

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