WryWriter's profile

Dunnegan’s Tavern wasn’t a place you’d go unless you’d been there before. Just a neighborhood joint—a solid little tugboat amid a brooding flotilla of triple-deckers clinging to the grime of its seventy-seven beer-soaked years. If you grew up on McBride or South or St. Mark’s you walked right in. No one else ever seemed to try. The regulars were fine with that. A half dozen men sat comfortably in the tobacco-stained Saturday afternoon dimness. Above them, on the old wood grained Zenith, the R...

“Bored tonight,” she says. “Want to chat? No car seats. Must love cats And Pats and hats and all the other Parameters I’ve put around my world.” I scour your keystrokes for clues, An archeologist of hope Searching for where I might fit Into your mysterious, hidden civilization. I rearrange the shards of evidence For insight into what you really want. A quote from Rushdie, 420 Or eyes that remind you of your uncle Harry? What fatal miscue must I sidestep to evade Deposit in your Trash folder? ...

I never learned the right things The things that make blue-eyed women Swoon and sigh and say stupid things And smile when no one is looking I never learned to play guitar Or sketch quick stroke portraits in cafes Or carry a camera that captures your electric essence Running on the beach in black and white I stand by the elevator Your blonde head recedes down the hall Your name stuck in my throat The easy conversation evaporated like moonlight in eclipse I stare at the ceiling remembering The ...