The Lady in the Glove Box

  When I wait for her to do a spot of shopping I wait in it. When she’s getting ready to go out, I wait in it too, the sun like a lamp., with my stash of magazines: New Yorkers, National Geographics and that lady in the glove box, Olive Kitteridge. It is my loo, my library, my study, My five-seated reading room, My Chapman’s Homer. My car really takes me places.     Continue reading The Lady in the Glove Box


I know I will never write that great Russian novel. I cannot find my inner Tolstoy nor Dostoevsky. I know I will probably never write a novel. I’m too busy seeing the tree from the woods. Even short stories may be beyond me. A clutch of ten does not a short story writer make. The most I will ever write is a poem. I send them off. The postman comes but not for me. Epigrams. I’m good at epigrams. Oscar Wilde wrote a few. So did Groucho Marx. But they were already famous. I don’t really want to write a … Continue reading Blow