It started to get dark and we decided that Hope wasn’t coming
after all and Walter asserted that he had never even seen
the prosecutor. Alice stood, grim-faced, until after the parade
had finally passed and Quimby kept nodding his black
hatted head and then placed one hand dramatically upon his
handsome waistcoat and smiled his dreamy smile.... Oliver
stumbled by. He leaned back against the nearest lamppost; he
raised one hand in greeting. Alice dropped her pink and
white parasol, by pure accident, into the gutter and Walter
picked it up for her.
Robert’s mutt, his tail raised high in the air, slipped past. He
sniffed curiously at the merchandise. Then he trotted away
again.
is retired and lives with his wife in Georgia (rolling hill country). His poetry is published in Common Ground Review, Theodate, Fredericksburg Literary Review, The Write Room, Indiana Voice Journal, The Tower Journal, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and elsewhere. He has poetry appearing soon in Blue Bonnet Review, East End Elements, and Nine Mile Magazine.