Here she is again, old charity,
forgotten nearly, cutting back
the excess before frost.
I could tell you about her permanents
in the kitchen, malodor,
her arms against the nickel,
that she drove a Lincoln
with a blinker that raced
like a nervous pulse. Metallic blue
with robin’s egg interior,
like riding in a habit.
Daily I walk past
a scotch plaid lumpen mass
that rose once to a man: Give me
my compensation.
Give me my compensation.
This Issue
November 22, 2018
Bill McKibben
A Very Grim Forecast
Jed Perl
Romanticism’s Unruly Hero
Robert Kuttner
The Crash That Failed
This Issue
November 22, 2018
Bill McKibben
A Very Grim Forecast
Jed Perl
Romanticism’s Unruly Hero
Robert Kuttner
The Crash That Failed
