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The window washer smiles a little and licks his lips. Nadine smiles back.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

He never stopped reminding me that I was born in Harmony, Georgia.

You’re going to have a difficult life if you can’t figure out where to stand.

Without a working title, a poem could muddle meaning, confuse purpose.

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.

Not the Olympics, the guard said. Just chuck yourself down the tube.

There were classes where you became a family. It was a kind of love affair.

Her cheek was like a plum about to burst and you had to close your eyes.

You slouched on the couch, naked, in front of the air conditioner.

The joy and anguish of youth, captured in two six-word stories.