Bill Yarrow is the author of the poetry collection, Pointed Sentences, published earlier this year by BlazeVox (books). He is the author of two chapbooks, Fourteen (Naked Mannekin, 2011) and Wrench(erbacce-press, 2009).
The back roads echoed inside her stripped bare minivan: no carpet, no rubber, no foam; loud and tinny, fume free, safe for Birdie.
Guy and I were pretty different, and I suspect good manners, natural empathy, and conceptual curiosity, along with the common experience of where we found ourselves at the age of twelve, were reasons we became friends.
“These houses were built by people from Ukraine!” Olga says angrily. “It is strong like me. Your husband healed me. Look! No more hip problems.” She bends down in a downward facing dog yoga posture. The women clap.
She said nothing. What was there to say? I'm frequently hungover. Many of my evenings and nights are spent drunkenly fumbling around my ex-husband's property. I have successfully absconded with the garden hose, the tiller, and three yard gnomes.
Subconsciously, I sniff the air a couple of times. I am going to call the police. I am walking and, suddenly bump right into someone, that comes out of nowhere.
“Pinch it,” he said. He put his hand on my bare thigh, grabbed my hand and put it on top of his hand. “Why are the lights off in here?”