The Meeting
The friends meet at their favorite café, Soups on Café. The women face each other, mirror
Behind Closed Doors
I It’s late—well past ten—when it bounces off the walls. Same swearing. Same thumping.
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Cleaning House
when the key was unturned when we unstepped through our “first place” when I undecorated with
The Spirit of Detroit
I.The sun shines on the Thinker, in the morning, outside the marblemuseum, the Detroit Institute of
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The Anchorite’s Album
Here is a tree,an old green-shadowedpost oak trunking out at angleshe ponderedfor years.Here is the anchorite
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